Premeditated
by rbnnybt
Summary: Starring UnSub SSA Dr. Spencer Reid, and featuring Reid as a serial killer.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds.

Author's Note: This is the beginning of a 7-story series in which I explore the "criminal mind" by evolving Reid into a killer from his current status in Season 6. Here is a list of ominous-sounding titles: Premeditated; Trafficking; Gigascale; Nanoscale; For Better, For Worse; Sickness and Health; Normal. In the process, all the characters will be royally screwed with, broken down and built up, until they will want to leap out of the TV screen to strangle me. Reid is in for the best and worst of times. Since this series is so long, I am happy to take suggestions from readers and fellow writers. Are there specific scenes/interactions/details that you would like to see at some point in the series? I will acknowledge any input that I end up using. If you have any thoughts, please send me a pm or leave me a review. You can even tell me what an insane little creeper I am for writing this series.

* * *

Chapter 1

The frail old man was so light that Reid had no trouble at all flipping the body over the side of the dumpster. The body landed with a soft thud, like a messenger bag hitting the floor after a tedious day's work. Reid closed the lid of the dumpster, wiped his hands on his coat, and looked about in all directions. He wasn't sure exactly where he was, but the low concrete buildings, punctuated with roll-up garage doors, indicated a self-storage facility.

Out of the corner of his eye, down a narrow gutter between two buildings, Reid spotted movement. It was a squad car, ambling down the path in the aisle to his right. Behind it was a second squad car, swerving around the first to drive two abreast. The path was wide. It was covered with potholes and patches of dirty snow.

Reid exhaled a breath of warm moist air. The small white cloud leaped out of his mouth with the force of his lungs behind it. In the atmosphere, it hung for a moment, uncertain of its position in the larger world, before it dissipated, each of its molecules pursuing an individual trajectory into a great unknown.

Reid exhaled again, this time for the old man. He imagined the second cloud as the soul of his victim, floating away to Heaven, or wherever souls went after they vacated their bodies.

A third breath, and it was high time to flee. Reid ducked under a pipe that obstructed the opening to the gutter between the buildings. A tiny tuft of green grass poked up from a crevice in the pavement. Reid winced as he accidentally trampled upon it. He wondered how it had found the means to thrive, here in this sunless passage barely wide enough for one skinny person to wiggle through sideways. He marveled at the tenacity of life.

At the same time, he pictured a rotund form, like that of Garcia or a pregnant JJ, attempting to squeeze through the narrow passage. He pictured Garcia and JJ getting stuck in the passage and having to be pulled out by Hotch and Morgan. It didn't work at first, not until Prentiss came to the rescue, applying dabs of lubricant all along the body-wall interface. Afterwards, she set the tube on the ground and darted to the back of the line, where she wrapped her arms around Hotch's waist and wrenched Hotch backwards with all her strength. Hotch, who had wrapped his arms around Morgan's waist, wrenched Morgan backwards as well, and the whole line tumbled onto the concrete as Garcia and JJ crashed out of the passage. JJ was the only one who didn't fall flat on her back, as Prentiss, Hotch, and Morgan had done, or flat on her face, as Garcia had done. Reid exhaled a sigh of relief, this time for Henry. Falling while heavily pregnant was sure to damage the baby.

Reid inhaled, replacing the sigh and looking around for Rossi. He heard him before he saw him. Rossi arrived in the form of a sharp clap closing in from the middle distance. The first clap was followed by a series of claps, an amused snicker, and the sound of Italian leather shoes hitting the pavement. The others, laughed at by the older profiler, laughed along with him, genuinely amused by their own follies.

Suddenly, Reid couldn't see them anymore. It was as if the sound of Rossi's clapping had opened up the auditory channel and closed down the visual channel. The auditory channel lacked the richness and vibrancy of the visual channel. It was a poor substitute. All that Reid was left with, in the cramped alcove halfway down the passage, were fading voices, fading footsteps, and a crystal-clear vision of his former friends and colleagues in his mind's eye. He crouched down, wrapped his arms around his knees, and wallowed.

An engine purred into silence on the path outside the passage. Car doors clicked open and slammed shut. Keys, or perhaps handcuffs, clinked a few feet above the ground.

Reid covered his nose and mouth with his hands, blocking off the sound of his breathing. He made himself as small as he could, scrunching up against the walls of the alcove and willing the alcove to absorb his body into its crumbling matrix. He was paralyzed, but not by fear. The sequence of physical responses was all wrong. By now, his heart should have been pounding, his muscles should have been twitching, his hands should have been sweating, but they were not. The physical apathy made no sense, but Reid ignored the signs. He pulled his knees closer to his chin and closed his eyes, hoping that if he saw no one, then no one would see him.

Outside, on the pothole-dotted path, the police officers went about their business. Reid heard them searching the storage units one by one, undoing the locks and chains, rolling up the doors, clicking their flashlights on to illuminate the darkness within. He recognized three different voices. The three officers conversed with each other as they searched the premises. They mentioned a box of something and a label over something. They didn't mention the body in the dumpster or the UnSub in the alcove.

In a rush of jubilance, Reid realized that the authorities were not looking for him. They were looking for an object rather than a person. They were not even investigating a murder. Reid willed them to steer clear of the dumpster.

The search ended with the blowing of a whistle. The clarion call came from a distance, beyond multiple aisles of storage units. On the path, the engines rumbled to life. Car doors clicked open and slammed shut. Tires ground against pavement. A gust of wind whooshed through the aisle, pushing the officers on their way from a place where they were not welcome.

In the alcove, Reid relaxed. He smiled, a huge teeth-baring cheek-cracking lung-clearing exhalation of unadulterated bliss. He was free and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future. He chuckled as he stood up and wiped away the soggy leaves and damp earth that clung to his coat and pants. He shook his head like a wet puppy to clear away the unknown detritus that had fallen from the ceiling of the alcove. Despite the biting chill, Reid felt warm from his torso to his toes. He attributed the warmth to his heart, which beat slowly and steadily beneath his shirt and sweater. His heart was a metronome, beating out the even predictable rhythm of a calm peaceful happiness.

After he awakened from the dream, the warm joyful feeling shed its even predictability. It built and built and built, until it was like the biggest sigh of relief or the biggest sneeze that a person could ever experience. It cleared away all other feelings, filling all the spaces between all the molecules in the atmosphere, until the atmosphere was chockful of molecules, packed and touching, more like molecules in a solid than molecules in a gas, but aggregating to form a shimmering transparent gas nonetheless. In the bliss after the storm, Reid felt neither fear or disgust, and certainly not remorse.

* * *

Reid peeked over his computer screen at Morgan and Prentiss. They sat at their desks with their chairs facing each other, flipping through a pile of folders that they passed back and forth between them. Morgan would grab a case file from a stack on his desk, make some notations in the file, pass the file to Prentiss, and Prentiss would make further notations before adding the file to a stack on her own desk.

It was a ritual that they engaged in every month, usually on the last Thursday before completed case files were due on Friday. In the BAU, Derek Morgan and Emily Prentiss were unofficial partners who did their fieldwork together and wrote up their case files together. Others need not apply.

Reid stood up, intending to visit the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee.

"Hey Morgan, you want coffee?" Reid asked.

"Nah," Morgan didn't look up from his file.

"Emily?" Reid leaned over the desk.

"None for me, thanks," Prentiss glanced up, but dropped her eyes back down almost immediately, eager to circle an enumerated list in red ink.

Reid paused, leaned in for a closer look at the file, and shuffled off to the kitchen before Prentiss could notice the intrusion. He had been deliberating with himself about striking up a conversation with his friends and colleagues, but they were so absorbed in their paperwork that he decided not to interrupt the flow of the ritual. Morgan hated paperwork, and so did Prentiss, but when the two of them worked together to crunch through a stack of case files, they were a well-oiled machine. Others need not apply.

From the kitchen, Reid peeked over his cup at Morgan and Prentiss. He took a sip of his coffee, swirling the liquid, tasteless and caustic, around his mouth before relaxing his throat and letting it slide down his gullet. He searched through his memory banks, trying to pinpoint the exact moment in time when Morgan had started hating him.

Reid had only waded through 1.79% of his social interactions with Morgan when he was jolted out of his reflective mood. Hotch approached with his briefcase, walking briskly through the bullpen on his way out of the office.

"Leaving early?" Reid asked.

"Yeah, see you tomorrow," Hotch sped towards the elevator without further explanation.

Reid assumed that something had come up with Jack. He hoped that it wasn't anything serious. Maybe it was a dentist's appointment or a parent-teacher conference. It couldn't be serious, because Hotch had indicated that he would be here for work tomorrow.

Returning to his coffee, Reid took another sip and turned his attention to the second floor corridor overlooking the bullpen. He watched Garcia hurry down the corridor, holding a thick packet of printouts. She stopped in front of Rossi's office and knocked on the door. After a minute or so, Rossi opened the door, accepted the packet, and invited Garcia into his office. Garcia disappeared inside, the door closing on its own behind her, the door conspiring with the blinds to shut Reid out from the secrets within.

Reid wondered what Garcia and Rossi were working on together. Maybe it was one of Rossi's endless supply of cold cases. When it came to solving cold cases, Rossi seemed to trust technical analysts more than fellow profilers. Reid knew that Rossi trusted only himself. That was why partnering with Rossi was so unsatisfying.

Without realizing what he was doing, Reid continued looking around the bullpen and the offices on the second floor. He continued looking even after he had finished his cup of coffee. After dithering by the kitchen counter for several more minutes, Reid realized that he was looking for JJ. Of course, he knew that JJ wasn't going to show up at Quantico anymore. She was gone, and Reid hadn't heard from her since she had left. He supposed that she was adjusting to her new job with the Department of Defense. He wished that she were still around to roll her beautiful blue eyes at him.

Reid washed his cup, put it back into a top cabinet, and shuffled back to his desk. He placed a pair of headphones over his ears. No sound came through the headphones. Their only purpose was to prevent people from speaking to him. He had acquired them recently, after a series of bizarre rationalizations that would have landed him in a mental institution if he had dared reveal them to anyone.

The reasoning was extraordinarily convoluted.

During the past year, Reid had noticed that he had overstayed his welcome in the BAU. Previously, during his early years on the team, his unique intellect had been appreciated and treasured. His intellectual exuberance, the random fact-spewing tirades that flooded out of his mouth without conscious inhibition, had been foreborne as the price to be paid for his intellect. Now, everyone had become accustomed to his intellect, so his intellect was taken for granted, while his intellectual exuberance was universally despised. Before she had left, JJ had been the only one who still spared the energy to roll her eyes whenever Reid let slip a little too much of his love for the world and all the knowledge contained within it. Now that JJ was gone, all Reid had to look forward to were blank stares from Morgan, exasperated stares from Rossi, and apologetic glances from Prentiss to everyone else for setting off yet another geyser of irritating irrelevancy.

Throughout his life, Reid had always known that his intellectual exuberance made people uncomfortable. Some people drew the conclusion that he was showing off, as if a one-in-a-billion genius with an IQ of 187 needed to show off. Reid didn't like it when people assigned him motives where he had none. Other people considered him a bore, and he thought that a far more legitimate reason to dislike him. Growing up as he had, he was used to being disliked, and he had learned not to let it affect him too much.

The problem was that, in recent years, Reid had settled into a comfortable position in the BAU. He had become part of a team, which had sewn itself into a family, and he had watched, open-mouthed and slack-jawed, as the family had begun to come apart at the seams. In moments of brutal honesty, Reid admitted that it was not so much the family coming apart as it was his own position within the family. Time had done its work, changing the interpersonal dynamics of the changing team. Anyone who did not adjust to change would find himself thrown out into the cold dark vacuum.

Reid remembered a time, a few years ago, when he had been the naive young genius who had needed to be handled with kid gloves. Since then, he had grown up, and he was glad not to be handled with kid gloves anymore, but it seemed as if the removing of the gloves had uncovered the truth concealed beneath the leather. Now, the team members were free to show their true feelings of indifference or annoyance or dislike. In Reid's eyes, they did exactly that.

Most of the time, indifference was the order of the day. At first, it had not been a big deal. Reid was not an attention-mongerer. He no longer sought approval from his peers or superiors. But a person could only stand so many dead looks from his former friends and colleagues before he began to question his relationships with all of them.

The dead looks from his former friend and semi-confidante, Derek Morgan, hurt the most. Reid suspected that Morgan had grown tired of him. Either he had worn Morgan down with his insufferability, or he had done something specific to offend Morgan. He subscribed more readily to the first theory than the second. In the linear combination that characterized the phenomenon, the scalar that multiplied the insufferability vector was greater in value than the scalar that multiplied the offense vector. Given that Morgan was not the only one who found him insufferable, Reid assumed that the scalar that multiplied the insufferability vector had spiraled to unbelievable heights for all the team members. As further evidence for the dominance of the insufferability vector, Reid doubted that he had generated offense vectors for everyone in the BAU. He suspected that some of the offense vectors were multipled by scalars of value zero.

Eventually, linear algebra had worked its way to headphones. Reid had reasoned that if he wore headphones, then others would naturally assume that he was listening to music or Peter Coyote reading the "Foundation" trilogy. Others would hesitate to interrupt him. Others would not speak to him quite as often, and he would not have quite as many opportunities to open his own mouth. As long as he kept his mouth shut, nothing insufferable could possibly leak out. Reid had concluded that each person, himself excluded, maintained a quota of insufferability that accepted a limited volume of the aforementioned. The volume was different for each person. When the quota was filled, the person would begin to actively dislike the person who had filled it. Reid surmised that he had simply filled the quotas of all his teammates much too quickly. His only saving grace was that the quota was leaky. Everyday, a portion of the quota drained away, such that the volume would empty over time, as long as it was not frequently replenished. Reid had only to wait, a few weeks for Prentiss, a few months for Morgan, a year or so for Rossi, until the quotas drained away. When the process was complete, he would be able to converse with his friends and colleagues again, and the old sense of belonging would rise up to embrace him with its warmth and comfort.

In the next reincarnation cycle, Reid would handle the quotas with all the care and attention that they deserved. Deep in his heart, he sighed with regret that he had not known about the quotas earlier. He consoled himself with the thought that he was not perfect, that no one was perfect, and that each mistake was a chance to learn something new.

"Hey Reid! Earth to Reid!" Morgan snapped his fingers in front of Reid's daydreaming face. "How about some lunch?" he leaned over the desk in a friendly manner.

"Yeah, Reid, we're thinking subs across the street," Prentiss stood up and patted the stack of completed case files. "There's a new bacon-wrapped pork rind side dish that Morgan's dying to try," she shuddered, imagining her arteries clogging up with pure porcine lard.

"No thanks," Reid said, "I brought sandwiches for lunch."

"Not PB&J again? That's not the way to put some meat on your bones, Kid," Morgan admonished.

"No, ham-and-cheese this time," Reid smiled proudly. "I even put in a slice of tomato and a leaf of lettuce. You're always reminding me to eat my vegetables."

"Well, someone has to," Morgan teased.

"What about you, Morgan? Who reminds you to eat your vegetables?" Prentiss asked. "Who reminds you not to eat your bacon-wrapped pork rinds?"

"Hey, watch it," Morgan replied. "I work out two hours a day. I think I deserve my bacon-wrapped pork rinds every once in awhile. Geek Boy here can barely lift his bag," he glanced over Reid's desk at the messenger bag on the floor, ascertaining that it was indeed filled to the brim with mysterious unseen entities.

"Ha ha, very funny," Reid swiveled away from Morgan. "Enjoy your lunch," he swiveled around to find that Morgan and Prentiss had already left their desks and parked themselves in front of the elevator.

After his former friends and colleagues had disappeared into the elevator, Reid replayed and analyzed the exchange in his mind. For a few minutes, it had felt like old times in the BAU bullpen. Morgan teased Reid. Prentiss teased Morgan. Everyone had a good time, despite the realities of an uncertain unstable life in which no one knew what den of atrocities he would be jetting off to or what freak of human nature he would be dealing with the next time the Sun came up.

Reid dug his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches out of his messenger bag. He had lied about the ham-and-cheese sandwiches. He had lied, because he hadn't wanted Morgan to pressure him into going out for lunch.

Since he had started the experiment with the headphones, Reid had felt more at peace with himself, knowing that the quotas were slowly draining away. Every minute that he did not spend mouthing off now was a minute that he could spend building concrete relationships later. At 29, Reid no longer considered himself a young person. He had grown up enough to desire meaningful friendships, if not romantic relationships. He didn't want to be a jiggling mass of gray matter that people excavated for what it knew before sticking it back into the fridge for safe-keeping. He didn't want to be a little brother that people could ignore or tease according to their whim. He wanted to be an equal partner in an adult friendship, one in which he could interact with someone without having to analyze the exchange later.

Operation Headphones and the whole legion of convoluted thinking behind it was the first step towards the goal. It would give Reid a fresh start in the BAU. While Operation Headphones was in effect, Reid was not about to ruin everything by going out to lunch with Morgan and Prentiss. A moment of pleasure was not worth a lifetime of pain.

* * *

"Thud!" Reid's messenger bag dropped to the floor of his bedroom.

"Plop!" Reid sprawled face-first onto the bed.

"Creak!" the bed complained as he flipped over.

"Poof!" Reid blew air through his lips and gazed up at the ceiling.

True to form, the ceiling was covered with glow-in-the-dark stars arranged into the northern constellations. The only anomaly was a cluster of glow-in-the-dark trilobites that had carved out a niche over the closet door. The extinct marine arthropods marched in a line over the length of the closet, marching now as they had marched through the Paleozoic Era, all the way from the Cambrian Explosion that had created them to the Permian Extinction that had destroyed them. They had fought the good fight for 250 million years. They had adjusted their forms and lifestyles to fit into every ecological niche in the ocean. In the end, it had not been enough.

At the end of the Permian Period, something had happened, and all the trilobites had disappeared, along with 90% of all the other species. Reid supposed that they had all overstayed their welcome on Earth.

Gazing up at the ceiling, Reid stared at the trilobites until his eyes watered. The watering gave him an excuse to close his eyes and think about the dream for the first time since he had escaped its clutches that morning.

In the twelve hours since the dream, the bubble of happiness had burst. Reid no longer delighted in the events of the dream. The overwhelming feeling of joy had been replaced by the cold hard facts before him.

In a dream in which he had murdered an old man, disposed of the body in a dumpster, and evaded the police by cowering in an alcove, Reid had felt nothing but happiness. He had not been afraid of the authorities, even though he had taken precautions to hide from them. He had not been disgusted with himself, not for the killing and not for the cowering. There had been no remorse to speak of. Instead, there had been utter contentment, and he had wished that such a feeling could be bottled and sold.

Reid covered his face with a pillow from the headboard. He made up his mind to have the dream again. Rather, he hoped that he would have the dream again. Not even he, with his incredible insufferable powers of cognition, could will himself to control his subconscious mind. All he could do was close his eyes, think about the dream, and hope to drift into it as he drifted off into sleep.

This time, when he murdered the old man, when he disposed of the body, when he evaded the police, Reid would be afraid and disgusted. He would be filled with remorse. The multiple bad feelings would cancel out the single good feeling. After he awakened, he would never have to think about any of this again.

* * *

Note about the murder dream: Prior to discovering CM a few months ago, I did not have dreams in which I murdered people, disposed of bodies, and evaded the police. I am happy to report that such dreams have only made me 0.0362% more homicidal than before.

Note about Reid's sense of alienation: When comparing Seasons 5-6 with Seasons 1-4, I cannot help noticing that the writers have forgotten how to write the team as a family. It seems like there are fewer and fewer meaningful team interactions in the episodes. I used this observation as the basis for developing Reid's sense of alienation or isolation or withdrawal or whatever it is. Much of Reid's thinking is a distortion, but every distortion holds a kernel of truth.

Any thoughts on the first chapter?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

This time, when he murdered the old man, when he disposed of the body, when he evaded the police, Reid was not afraid or disgusted. He was not filled with remorse. He had no chance to indulge in any feeling, good or bad, before a bullet whizzed through the air, penetrating his heart and kicking his brain into a frantic quest to let go of living.

The brain performed its palliative functions at the same time that the heart refused to give up. The heart beat faster and harder, faster and harder, pounding with an unrelenting rhythm that was not the rhythm of physical endurance, because it was not concomitant with the pounding of the brain. The brain had already accepted its demise, but the heart beat on, as if it were trying to escape its current host to find a new host before the brain seized control and shut it down forever.

Eventually, after a minute of dreamtime and a second of realtime, the heart muscle exploded, spreading a gush of hot agitated blood through the chest cavity. The sensations were so genuine that when he awakened, Reid was shocked to discover that he was still alive. He was thrilled, the pounding of his intact heart convincing his intact brain to snatch up a second chance at living. The single good feeling dominated his morning commute to work.

At work, on a cold rainy morning in November, Reid listened to Garcia bumble her way through a case briefing. He scanned the Round Table Room for the reactions of his fellow profilers.

Morgan and Prentiss maintained their poker faces as Garcia, hands covering eyes, passed out crime scene photos that she had never looked at during the case screening. Rossi rubbed his index finger along the side of his nose, letting slip a miniscule sigh of exasperation. Hotch blinked slightly faster than normal.

"Ew, ew, ew," Garcia scrunched up her face as she caught a glimpse of the victim in the photos.

Reid broke off a piece of his sugar cookie and crunched it in his mouth. He ignored Garcia's disgust as he focused in upon the disembodied ribcage in the top photo.

"The victim..." Garcia took a deep breath and rushed through her monologue, "The victim was a Caucasian woman in her early-60s, believed to have been a hitchhiker that the UnSub picked up on Interstate 65 between Indianapolis and Chicago. The UnSub drove the victim to a campground near the Tippecanoe Battlefield Memorial, raped her, beat her with a tire iron, and slashed her numerous times with a Swiss Army knife before finally strangling her with a power cord. He then dismembered the body with a handsaw and scattered the body parts all over the campsite. There's a photo of each body part at the crime scene and at the morgue. The medical examiner was able to piece together a nearly complete body. The only parts missing were the ears," she clapped her hands over her own ears, "Icky sticky!" she declared nonsensically.

"Maybe he ate them," Reid chewed, swallowed, and while his mouth was working, spewed out the first idea that came to mind.

"The UnSub appears to be a disorganized killer in the midst of a psychotic break," Prentiss ignored the comment. "The level of overkill indicates a substantial loss of control. The instruments of violence - the tire iron, the Swiss Army knife, the power cord - are everyday items, indicating that the UnSub did not possess a high enough level of organization to assemble a specialized murder kit."

"Maybe he's young and inexperienced rather than psychotic," Reid suggested. "That would explain the low level of organization and the age of the rape victim. Inexperienced serial killers have been known to demonstrate overkill, especially within quasi-natural environments such as the campground. The novel excitement of the experience, combined with the relative lack of artificial infrastructure, drives the killer into a predator-prey simulation, in which the predator chases down the prey, inflicts excessive bodily damage, and may or may not consume parts of the prey during and after the frenzy. That's why I suggested that the UnSub may have eaten the missing ears."

"I've never heard this theory of the predator-prey simulation," Rossi tipped his chair away from the table to glance at Reid sitting beside him.

"It's not an established theory," Reid dropped his eyes to the table and blushed, "It's a hypothesis that emerged from a statistical analysis of age versus M.O. for murders committed over the past century."

"So it's your personal theory?" Morgan chuckled, "Like 'Evil Twin, Eviler Twin'?"

"Not really my theory," Reid replied snappishly, annoyed with the reference to a throwaway comment that he had made on the BAU jet more than two years ago. "It was Gideon's theory. Before he left, Gideon had been working on a paper about the evolution of the serial offender. He was particularly interested in novice offenders. He told me once, while we were flying to that Datsun Z case in Seattle, that highly intelligent novices learn as they go and perfect their methods to become better killers over time."

"OK then, moving on..." Prentiss flipped through the police reports. "So far, we've established a low level of organization for the UnSub. We know that the UnSub raped his victims. What do we know about his age and sexual competence?"

Reid stared at Prentiss for a moment, stunned into unthinking silence by her dismissal of his ideas. Hadn't he already stated that the UnSub was young, based on the age of the victim? Didn't Prentiss know that the ages of rapists and the ages of rape victims were inversely correlated? Was Prentiss so distracted by Morgan's vacuous chuckling that she could no longer entertain a plausible hypothesis that had emerged from quantitative data?

Reid twiddled his pen in his fingers and popped another chunk of cookie into his mouth. He drowned out the voices of his colleagues as they discussed the UnSub. This was always the most boring part of the briefing, when Morgan and Prentiss droned endlessly, on and on and on, about the basic skeleton of the profile - age, race, level of organization, sexual competence. Reid always wanted to jump straight ahead into the meatier aspects of the profile, the specific parts that distinguished one impotent white male UnSub from another impotent white male UnSub. He was tired of the tedium, which was why he usually blocked off the auditory channel, inhibited the articulatory musculature of the face, and visualized scenes from Looney Tunes episodes during the briefings. In the episodes of his mind, Bugs Bunny was the predator, and Elmer Fudd was the prey.

In truth, as he had realized the minute that Garcia had waltzed into the Round Table Room with a stack of packets, Reid was miffed that he had been passed over for the case screening job. In his eyes, he was the ideal candidate to sit in JJ's dark cramped office and read through folder after folder of case files. He could have gotten through a hundred case files in the time that it took JJ to get through one. He could have constructed a partial profile for each case as he went along, such that once the winning case made its way into the Round Table Room, the team could have skipped right over the boring parts. It made no sense that Hotch had chosen Garcia, the squeamish technical analyst, over Reid, the clinical profiler who could read 20,000 words per minute and synthesize information in a higher plane and at a faster pace than anyone else in the FBI.

Reid was more than miffed. He was hurt and angry. He suspected that Hotch had passed over him for the case screening job only because Hotch didn't want to work with him anymore than absolutely necessary.

Reid took another bite of another cookie, checked into the briefing for a moment, heard Morgan say something about impotence, and checked back out in order to examine his interactions with Hotch over the past year, ever since Hotch, like Morgan, had started hating him. He recalled very few interactions that didn't involve Hotch saying something about the case or Hotch telling him to go play with Rossi or Hotch telling him to stay with the SUVs. Hotch had also made a comment about him joining a band, but Reid hadn't understood how Hotch had thought up such a unlikely scenario. The idea of Hotch thinking that he would join a band was repulsive to Reid. It showed that Hotch didn't know him outside of work at all.

"Why would you expect your boss to know you outside of work?" Reid asked himself. "Do you really want your boss to know you outside of work? Do you really want your boss to find out about your ant farm or your LEGO collection or your comic book? Other people are not interested in the same things that you're interested in! Other people are not like you! Get over it!"

Try as he might, Reid couldn't get over the drifting feeling that drifted him farther away from his teammates with each passing minute. It was not just the people that he drifted away from. It was also the job itself.

Back in the early years, whenever he returned home from a case, Reid would devote an entire weekend to writing up an account of the events. Following the account would be a detailed analysis, containing both qualitative and quantitative data, about his findings from the case. Each treatise would be a miniature Ph.D. dissertation, more than 100 pages long, with a wealth of material for the next generation of profilers to learn from. Every time Reid completed a treatise, he would print it out, bind the pages together, and drop it off on Gideon's desk. Gideon stored the collection in a file cabinet and referred to it now and then when he wrote up his own case files. Reid had always been proud that young and inexperienced as he was, he had occasionally been able to contribute some tiny detail to Gideon's understanding of a case. He couldn't imagine doing that for any boss but Gideon. He couldn't imagine anyone else taking the time to read his analyses or scrounging up the office space to store them. No one else possessed the requisite intellect and intellectual exuberance.

That was the root of the problem. Reid was bored with the BAU.

Now that Gideon had been gone for several years, Reid had difficulty recalling why exactly he had joined the BAU in the first place. The BAU did an important job, but was it as important as curing cancer? Curing cancer would save millions of lives. The BAU saved an average of five lives per case, based on the average number of victims that the average serial killer would go on to kill if the BAU had never gotten involved. In the grand scheme of human endeavors, the BAU was an insignificant mote. A genius with an IQ of 187 could use his talents for far grander purposes than hunting down psychotic freaks of human nature ensconced within hideously charming shells, one by one.

Reid was aware of all this. He had done the analysis. He had found that the only things that attached him to the BAU were the people in the BAU, the people that he formerly thought of as his current friends and colleagues and that he currently thought of as his former friends and colleagues. There was no other reason for Reid to be a profiler. As an intellectual pursuit, profiling was interesting, but so were a multitude of other things.

* * *

The BAU jet was undergoing repairs for a tailstrike that had occurred during landing several cases ago. It was not scheduled to take off until 7 PM, which meant that Reid had plenty of time to search the alley behind the MLK Central Library in Washington, DC. In the twelve hours since the dream, Reid had reconciled the location of the dumpster with the alley behind the library. It had somehow moved from its location in the self-storage facility. That was nothing out of the ordinary. Anything was possible in dreams.

Reid peered out at the dark alley from under the brim of his umbrella. He recognized the dumpster into which he had flipped the body of the old man. He looked around for the old man.

The alley was a narrow one-way passage that ran between 9th Street and 10th Street. Dumpsters lined both sides, as did trash, animate and inanimate. Reid fingered his revolver as he stepped slowly down the alley.

He passed a huddle to his left. He paused for a closer look. It was a pile of damp newspaper with a pair of feet and the hem of a skirt poking out from underneath the pages. The feet were clad in shiny red high heels, inconsistent with the dirty skirt and the whiskey bottles that littered the immediate area. The huddle breathed in and out in the rhythm of sleep, oblivious to its curious observer.

Reid moved on. Women or cross-dressing men, whatever the huddle was, did not fit the victomology.

The next huddle was alert. It was not a man or a woman. It was a stray cat that arched its back and hissed at Reid as he swerved out of its path. Reid pulled his gun out of its holster, just in case he was intruding upon the domain of larger toothier prey.

The rest of the journey down the dark creepy passage was uneventful. Reid was disappointed and excited at the same time. He was disappointed that he had found nothing of note in the passage, even though he hadn't known what he was searching for or why he had come out here at all. He was excited that he now had an excuse to look into all the dumpsters that lined the passage. Having journeyed from one end to the other and having encountered many similar dumpsters, Reid was no longer certain into which dumpster he had flipped the body of the old man. He thought that checking all the dumpsters to find them devoid of dead bodies would help him convince himself that the experience, the disturbing dreams of murder and/or death, in which he had murdered and been murdered, were indeed fanciful constructs of his self-defeating imagination.

The first dumpster contained trash in the form of cardboard boxes that should have gone into the recycling bin. The second dumpster contained all the rest of the trash. The third dumpster was mostly empty.

Reid looked again.

The third dumpster contained the body of an old man. He was sleeping, or so Reid thought at first glance. In the darkness, he thought he could see the man's chest moving up and down as the man breathed. A few glances later, he realized that the movement was accompanied by noise. It was not the noise of breathing, but the squeaky skittering noise of small animals, such as mice or rats, scurrying over the body of the old man.

Reid snapped his head back from the edge of the dumpster. He was horrified by the sight of rodents exploring and presumably devouring the body of the old man. The man had to be dead, not asleep as Reid had originally surmised, if the rodents had already come to clean house.

Reid stared at the side of the dumpster, unwilling, but deeply desiring, to look inside again. It was not to satisfy a sick fantasy. It was to ascertain that the old man was not the old man that he had murdered in his dream.

With a deep breath, Reid peeked over the side of the dumpster. He was relieved to find that the rodents had vacated the premises now that a living breathing human had shown up to stake his claim. He was even more relieved to discover that the old man was totally unlike his victim in every conceivable way.

His victim had been frail and thin. This old man was chunky. His victim had been bald, save a fringe of white hair that had encircled the back of his head. This old man had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair done up in a long ponytail. His victim had sported a neatly trimmed mustache. This old man sported a large thick beard that no doubt trapped particles of food whenever he ate anything.

All in all, the two old men were separate entities. One was real, and the other was imagined. The only thing they had in common was their current husk-like state of non-existence.

Reid holstered his revolver. He grabbed his cell phone out of his pocket. He dialed 911 to report the death of the old homeless man, but the cell phone rang before he could press the call button.

It was Hotch, calling at 7 PM from the BAU jet to ask why Reid had not shown up at the airport.

"Oh sorry!" Reid noticed the time, "I'm so sorry, Hotch. I'll be over there as fast as I can!"

"Do you have your ready bag with you?" Hotch asked curtly.

"Uh no, I left it at the office."

"Are you at home? Can you pack a bag and get over here in less than 30 minutes?"

"Uh no, I'm not at home. I'm running some errands. I'll run home now and try to get there as fast as I can!"

"Don't bother," Hotch said with a hint of anger in his voice. "You can sit this one out. I'll see you in my office after the case."

"Hotch, I'm sorry!" Reid's voice took on a shrill tone. "I swear I can make it to the airport in 30 minutes."

"I'll see you when I get back, Reid. Have a good weekend," Hotch hung up.

Reid held the cell phone to his ear for a full minute after Hotch had hung up. He was frozen with fear and disgust. He was afraid of Hotch and the looming meeting in Hotch's office. He was disgusted with himself for losing track of time, here in this alley that he inhabited for no reason whatsoever. He was filled with remorse.

At the moment, the remorse that he experienced was completely different from the remorse that he had hoped to experience. It was more like a main dish of regret with a side dish of panic. On its own, regret was not the strongest of feelings, but when tinged with panic, regret was almost as strong a feeling as remorse. Reid regretted the series of misguided decisions that had led him into the alley instead of the jet. He regretted them so much that his breathing became shallow and his fingers began twitching. He felt shivery all of a sudden, standing as he did in the freezing rain, dripping as he did with cold water. He had dropped the umbrella in the same moment that he had realized the implications of his actions. The actions were simple, but the implications were complex.

He had missed the plane.

He had only missed the plane once before. Afterwards, he had sworn an oath.

"I'll never miss another plane again," he had sworn.

He had sworn the oath in a bar in New Orleans, watching his friend Ethan play the piano, seeing not his childhood friend but his adulthood friend and father figure sitting beside him. He had sworn the oath to Gideon and Gideon alone. Gideon was gone, and now, so was the oath.

In Freudian psychology, the father figure was called the super-ego. The super-ego watched and judged with a critical eye. It looked upon the doings of the id, the portion of the brain that was called the heart, and the ego, the portion of the brain that was called the self. The id was impulsive. It knew instincts. The ego was intellectual. It knew facts. The super-ego was perfect. It knew right and wrong.

The super-ego maintained the social contract between the self and the world, just as the plane maintained the social contract between Reid and the BAU.

"Super-ego, plane, whatever," Reid retrieved his umbrella from the ground and convinced himself that missing the plane was no big deal. So what if he sat out this one case? It was not the end of the world.

Reid headed out of the alley, towards 10th Street and the Metro. He laughed at himself for his silliness.

"Thinking about Freud in a dumpster-lined alley on a dark rainy night?" he thought, "This is new, even for you."

Reid stopped thinking about Freud. Or rather, his ego stopped consciously thinking about Freud. Most of Freud's theories had been discredited over the past century, so the ego was not about to let them affect it now.

The id continued the original train of thought. The id, not as intellectual as the ego, enjoyed ideas with the heart. It enjoyed Freud's tripartite construction of the human psyche.

Trios were beautiful.

* * *

Note: As a bonus for reading this chapter, here is a truly awful ditty set to the tune of "My Favorite Things" from "The Sound of Music".

Death and destruction and maiming and mangling

Murder and mayhem and stripping and strangling

Pieces of people all tied up with strings

These are a few of my favorite things!

When the whore screams

When the crack's gone

When I'm feeling MAAAAAAAD

I simply remember my favorite things

And then I just feel MOOOOOOOAAAAAAAR MAAAAAAAD!


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Alone in the BAU bullpen, Reid contemplated death. The first question that came to mind was whether he himself had ever died. He thought not.

The closest he had ever come to death had been during his choking seizing fit on the floor of Tobias Hankel's cabin. Looking back, Reid did not believe that he had actually died. If he had actually suffered clinical death, a combination of cardiac and respiratory arrest, then it was extremely unlikely that he would be here today.

The evidence was clear. Tobias Hankel had not used a defibrillator on him, because Tobias Hankel had not owned a defibrillator. Tobias Hankel had only performed CPR on him. CPR was extremely unlikely to restart the heart following cardiac arrest. Following cardiac arrest, the only reliable way to restart the heart was to apply an electric shock to depolarize the cardiac muscle so that specialized pacemaker cells in the sinoatrial node could re-establish the normal sinus rhythm. It was like wiping a blackboard clean so that it could be re-filled with the rhythmic tapping of chalk against slate.

In Tobias Hankel's cabin, Spencer Reid had not died. He had stopped breathing, but his heart had not stopped beating. He had choked on his own vomit during a tonic-clonic seizure caused by slamming his skull against the floor. He had only stopped breathing for a couple of minutes, enough time for Tobias Hankel's various identities to argue amongst themselves over whether or not to resuscitate him. In the end, Tobias had won out over Charles and Raphael, so Tobias had performed chest compressions on him, the real benefit of which had been to jolt the vomit out of his airway so that he could start breathing on his own. Tobias Hankel had saved Spencer Reid's life, but not in the way that the poor ignorant slob had imagined.

"Or maybe there's an alternative explanation," Reid considered.

In the medical literature, a phenomenon had been reported a total of 25 times worldwide during Reid's 29 years on Earth. The phenomenon was called autoresuscitation after failed cardiopulmonary resuscitation, colloquially known as the Lazarus phenomenon. It was named after the biblical figure Lazarus, who had been restored to life by Jesus four days after his death. When Jesus had come to raise Lazarus from the dead, he had said, "I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." (John 11:25)

In the Lazarus phenomenon, a person died, after all methods of resuscitation had failed, only to return to life spontaneously, when cardiac and respiratory function miraculously reappeared. The phenomenon usually occurred within 30 minutes of death, but there had been cases in which the dead had come to life hours later to find themselves in the morgue. The phenomenon still occurred in modern times in modern hospitals with modern equipment to detect the faintest signs of life. Most of the dead recovered fully to enjoy a second chance at living.

Reid enjoyed the idea of the Lazarus phenomenon. He enjoyed applying the idea to himself. Most of all, he enjoyed a second chance at living. Waking from the dead was just like waking from the dream.

In Tobias Hankel's cabin, Spencer Reid had indeed died. His heart had entered asystole, the condition that announced itself as a flat line on the monitor. Unlike its depiction in maudlin medical dramas, asystole could not be treated by defibrillation. The paddles needed a shockable rhythm, either ventricular fibrillation or ventricular tachycardia, to work. By definition, asystole was an absence of rhythm. There was no electrical activity to shock into order. Following asystole, the only unreliable way to restart the heart was to apply an injection of epinephrine and atropine, neither of which Tobias Hankel kept in his personal pharmacopia. Tobias Hankel's personal pharmacopia was limited in variety. It contained acetaminophen, under its trade name Tylenol, and hydromorphone, under its trade name Dilaudid. Tobias Hankel had not saved Spencer Reid's life. Spencer Reid had died, only to return to life spontaneously.

Reid owed his life to no one. He could live however he chose to live. He could believe whatever he chose to believe.

* * *

The BAU filed into the bullpen at 2 PM on a Thursday afternoon, completely exhausted after spending nearly a week in northern Indiana. Rossi made a beeline for his office without so much as a glance at the familiar surroundings. Morgan and Prentiss dumped their ready bags, full of dirty laundry, under their desks and sank wearily into their chairs. Hotch paused briefly at Reid's empty desk before trudging up the stairs and disappearing into his own office.

Reid cornered Garcia on her way into her hacker cave. Garcia had traveled with the team on the case, and Reid wanted to find out how the case had gone before the dreaded meeting with Hotch.

"Hey Garcia, welcome back," Reid sidled up to the door of her office. "How did the case go?"

"How did the case go?" Garcia answered in a huff, "Let me tell you how the case went! The case went to Hell! The case went to the Deepest Depths of Hell!"

"What happened?" Reid asked anxiously, following Garcia into her office. "Did you catch the UnSub?"

"No!" Garcia rolled her suitcase into a corner and plopped backwards into her chair. "We didn't catch the UnSub. We didn't even identify the UnSub."

"What?" Reid exclaimed, leaning over Garcia until his face was squarely in her face. "You didn't catch the UnSub? You didn't identify the UnSub? The UnSub is still out there?"

"Personal space! Personal space!" Garcia waved Reid out of her face. "Sit, Little One, and let me relate to you a tale of woe," she gestured at the floor.

Reid sat himself on the floor. He shifted into a passable position against the large computer desk and waited for Garcia to begin.

"Remember during the case briefing when we were discussing your theory..." Garcia began.

"The predator-prey simulation?" Reid cut in eagerly.

"Huh?" Garcia stared blankly for a second. "No, not that theory. Your other theory - 'Evil Twin, Eviler Twin'. In this case, we couldn't identify a single UnSub, because the profile matched a pair of UnSubs, who turned out to be identical twins."

"You mean the UnSubs were identical twin brothers who worked together?" Reid asked, excited by the theoretical possibilities.

"No, I mean the identical twin brothers both fit the profile, but we couldn't determine which one of them was the killer," Garcia replied.

"Isn't that a case of 'Good Twin, Evil Twin'?" Reid asked.

"Only if one twin weren't covering up for the other and engaging in obstruction of justice," Garcia said. "Let me explain. The twins are 25-year-old brothers who live and work together on the family farm. The parents own the farm, but they no longer live there, because they prefer the city lights of Chicago. The brothers both fit the profile - young white males who, after growing up in a rigid sheltered environment, are now exploring their identities and sexualities by raping and killing older women, while delivering fresh-pressed apple cider to their customers in Indianapolis and Chicago."

"So they're born psychopaths?" Reid asked skeptically, "Or born sociopaths? Did they grow up on the farm with their parents? Did they experience any of the childhood traumas associated with serial killers? What are they like in person? Are there signs of any personality disorders?"

"They're tall handsome corn-fed All-American boys," Garcia replied. "Polite, talkative, not too smart and not too stupid..."

"The Mask of Sanity," Reid commented. "The ability of a psychopath or sociopath to present an outwardly normal demeanor. Every emotion is totally superficial but appears totally sincere."

"Creepy," Garcia wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Anyway, back to the brothers. Both of them fit the profile, but there was no physical evidence to link either of them to the crimes. No DNA, no fingerprints, no shoe prints, no tire tracks, only anonymous witness reports claiming to have seen someone of their description at four of the five crime scenes. As you know, witness reports are..."

"...notoriously unreliable," Reid finished. "How did you know that the brothers weren't working together? Identical twins share such a strong bond that they would be a formidable pair if they worked together. In a twin pair, one would be unlikely to betray the other, as spouses might betray each other in a dominant-submissive pair. Karla Homolka and Paul Bernardo..." he stopped at Garcia's hand of warning.

"They have alibis," Garcia explained. "On each night that a murder took place, one of the twins was spotted at a local bar. One of them hung out there all night, drinking himself silly from 8 PM to 2 AM. No one at the bar was able to tell us which one was there, because the twins have a habit of pulling pranks on their friends by impersonating each other. They've been doing this since they were little, and they're still doing it now. I suggested that the twins were alternating their drinking and killing duties, but my idea was automatically rejected. Hotch and Rossi were convinced that there was only one killer. They even suspected one brother over the other, but there wasn't enough evidence to nail anything down."

"It's like the opposite of dissociative identity disorder," Reid remarked. "Rather than one body, multiple identities, we're dealing with multiple bodies, one identity."

"One psychopathic or sociopathic identity!" Garcia threw up her hands. "In my opinion, the obstructor is no better than the killer. He's just as guilty, even without committing the crimes himself. They're the same!"

"So what happened?" Reid asked. "Did the team interrogate them? Did their stories match up?"

"Yeah, perfectly," Garcia replied. "They lawyered up right away and worked out their stories just as quickly. It was like they were playing with us. They both claimed to be the one at the bar. The family is wealthy and influential in the area. The sheriff didn't want to ruffle any feathers. He let them go. I'm hoping that the investigation will at least scare them off. Maybe they'll learn their lesson and stop?"

"No way," Reid said. "Psychopathic and sociopathic killers don't stop killing on their own. For them, there's no lesson to learn. They might lie low for awhile, but they'll start up again. They'll alter their appearance or switch their victimology or change their M.O., but they'll never stop, not until we catch them and put them away for good."

"O Bright Ray of Sunshine, lighten my world!" Garcia swiveled to face her computer screens. "I don't even want to think about this case or any other case for at least 24 hours. How was your week, Reid? You seem to have recovered nicely from the stomach flu."

"Stomach flu?" Reid frowned.

"The illness that caused you to miss the plane," Garcia began tapping on her keyboard, bringing up window after window of code. "Hotch said that you were so busy throwing up that he couldn't even understand what you were saying on the phone. That's why we didn't call you about the case. We figured that our jiggling mass of gray matter could use some R&R while it got over the stomach flu. It's not like we can ever convince you to take a vacation otherwise."

"Oh yeah, thanks, I'm all better now," Reid faked a small smile. "Can I get you anything, Garcia? Coffee? Cookies? I've got sugar cookies at my desk. I've been eating them all week, ever since I got over the stomach flu."

"No thanks," Garcia continued tapping. "I've been eating way too much junk food lately. What I really need are some brussels sprouts to make up for it. You don't happen to have any of those on you, do you? No? Didn't think so," she swiveled around and looked expectantly at Reid.

Reid could tell that Garcia was waiting for him to leave. Garcia needed time alone, whether in her dim pristine hacker cave or in her bright frilly apartment, to recover the bits of herself that she had lost during the frustrating case. On this point, Reid could not relate. He understood the reasoning but not the feeling. He himself maintained a different set of needs.

Whenever a case ended, most people, whether profilers or detectives, tried to put the whole mess behind them. Not Reid. Reid never put a case behind him. Not a single one.

Instead, he analyzed the cases endlessly, on his commute or at his desk or in the Round Table Room. He replayed the cases in his mind, piecing together everything he knew to create a distinct narrative for each distinct perspective - the BAU, the victim, the UnSub. For each narrative, he could play it as a whole, or he could play it in its parts. He could amass all the emotional bits and pieces and play them in sequence as a topsy-turvy fantasia of joy, agony, and everything in between. He could amass all the intellectual bits and pieces and play them in sequence as a clinical fugue of thought and subsequent action, cause and subsequent effect. The separation intensified both the intellectual and the emotional, such that when he put them back together, the narrative played itself as one grand sweeping symphony that fractalized into smaller and smaller symphonies, each telling a sub-textual and sub-sub-textual layer of the story.

The process brought the case to life. From each completed case file, it created a living breathing universe no less complex than the universe at large. It was a manifestation of genius. No one else in the BAU, not even Gideon, could ever hope to experience it.

Nor could anyone else dread the experience. It was a manifestation of genius, but genius carried a cost. Genius was not a twin pair of intellect and emotion. Genius was a dominant-submissive pair. In genius, emotion was clouded by intellect, and what was sincere on the emotional plane was superficial on the intellectual plane.

* * *

Alone in JJ's office, Reid contemplated dying. Death was intellectual, but dying was emotional. He tried to recall what it had felt like to die.

In fantasy, dying had been centered around the heart - the bullet penetrating the heart, the heart beating and pounding, the heart exploding and gushing. The heart struggled while the brain arrested.

In reality, dying had been centered around the brain - the skull slamming the floor, the brain jolting and jerking, the brain seizing and choking. The brain struggled while the heart arrested.

Reid understood the implications of the dissection. From the victim's perspective, dying felt like the reality. From the killer's perspective, the one that the killer projected onto the victim, dying felt like the fantasy. One death felt better than the other. One death did not feel so bad at all. Fantasy could never compare to reality. In fantasy, dying was no big deal, and neither, by extension, was death.

Reid swept his Maglite in tiny yellow circles over the carpet. He shrank farther into the cubbyhole under the desk. He twisted his head around to look at the doorknob. The door was locked. The blinds were closed. It was nearly 4 PM, and Reid had only to hide out in JJ's office for another hour or so before everyone else left to go home. He closed his eyes and analyzed the exchange with Garcia.

At first, he had been upset. Garcia had referred to him as a jiggling mass of gray matter. He now knew that he was not the only one who thought this way. The whole BAU thought this way. The whole FBI thought this way. Such was his place in the world.

Next, he had been upset that no one had called him during his purported illness. It hadn't mattered that the illness had been a total fantasy. It had only mattered that none of the proprietors of the jiggling mass of gray matter had cared enough to make sure that the mass was still jiggling. Of course, everyone had been preoccupied with the case, but was it really so difficult to call someone to make sure that they were still alive? Other than him, did no one in the BAU know that severe vomiting, if left untreated, led to dehydration, electrolyte imbalance, and death? Did no one know that a person, while vomiting, could choke on his own vomit, stop breathing, and die? Even if he survived, he was certain to suffer hypoxia-induced brain damage. What would hypoxia-induced brain damage do to a jiggling mass of gray matter? It would turn a jiggling mass of gray matter into an inert mass of waste matter.

For Reid, his fantasized demise from his purported illness clarified his thinking. He came to a stunning realization. Without his approval, the realization rang true.

The BAU was nothing without its jiggling mass of gray matter. They had failed the solve the case. Their leader had failed to make a good decision.

On that cold rainy night nearly a week ago, the good decision would have been to wait, to delay departure for the hour that it would have taken for Reid to run home, pack a bag, and rush to the airport. Instead, Hotch had decided to ditch Reid.

Reid was sure that the BAU could have solved the case, if only they had taken along their jiggling mass of gray matter. He was sure that he could have teased apart the facts to point the finger squarely at one brother or the other. A fractalized symphony of sub-text, disassembled into its fractalized sub-symphonies of sub-sub-text, hid in plain sight within the volumes of details from the case. Reid was the only one who could have re-assembled it. He saw signal where others saw noise. Somewhere down the line, because of this one poor decision, a serial killer was going to murder a victim or three.

In the eyes of a genius, the decision was all the less forgivable, because it had been a decision of emotion. It was one thing to lack the intellectual prowess to solve the case. It was another thing to lack the emotional awareness to make a good decision.

For some reason that Reid had not yet discerned, Hotch had been annoyed with him that day, even before he had missed the plane. Perhaps Hotch had been annoyed that Reid had mentioned Gideon. If Hotch knew himself at all, then he would know that he could never hold a candle to Gideon, not in intellectual prowess or emotional awareness. It was no contest, and he had no reason to be ashamed or to take out his own shame by shaming others. Or perhaps Hotch had been angry that the whole team had to sit on the plane and wait for one person, whom he considered the weakest link, to show up. If Hotch knew the team at all, then he would know that Reid was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the weakest link. Who the weakest link was could be debated _ad infinitum_, but Reid was sure that he himself would not compose any part of the debate. To the team, he was just a jiggling mass of gray matter, but compared to the others, he was at least a jiggling mass of gray matter.

Suddenly, Reid came to another stunning realization. He finally understood why Hotch had passed over him for the case screening job. If he were allowed to sit in JJ's dark cramped office, reading and evaluating case files all day, then there was the distinct possibility that he would solve some of the cases _in cerebro_. That was an undesirable outcome for a Unit Chief, to have his own work outshone by the work of a subordinate. Authorities higher than the Unit Chief would wonder why the beta star glowed brighter than the alpha. In the past, that very thing had happened with Gideon, but Hotch had not minded, because Gideon had been old and broken and safe. In the future, Hotch would make sure that no such thing happened with Reid, because Reid was young and whole and dangerous.

In the darkness, Reid snickered at his passive-aggressive musings. He felt silly, like a little child, sitting with his little chin on his little knees, hiding in a little cubbyhole to avoid a scolding from Mommy and Daddy. Hotch was as likely to fear him as the Earth was likely to rotate in the opposite direction. On the retrograde Earth, as on its retrograde twin Venus, the Sun would rise in the west and set in the east. At first, the change would be startling, but after awhile, everyone would adjust, and retrograde would be quite indistinguishable from prograde.

* * *

Reid ambled down the alley behind the MLK Central Library. It was raining again, just like last night, two nights ago, and the night that he had missed the plane. November was turning out to be a month of freezing rain and long aimless walks in it.

As he walked, Reid twirled his umbrella in his hand, imitating the girl on the Morton salt containers. The Morton Salt Girl walked around in the rain, twirling an umbrella in one hand while holding a salt container in the other. A steady stream of salt flowed out of the container, none of the salt caking in the damp atmosphere of the rainstorm, because anti-caking agents had been added to absorb the excess moisture. As the girl proved, Morton salt flowed freely, rain or shine. The company logo matched the company motto, "When it rains, it pours."

Reid was so absorbed in his trivial train of thought that he failed to notice the sound of footsteps behind him. The footsteps were heavy. The frequency was low. The stride was long. There was more than one set of footsteps.

By the time Reid noticed them, the footsteps had approached within feet of him. He reached for his revolver in its holster, but a memory stopped him. It was the memory of dying, followed by the memory of death. Miraculously, the memory of death was followed by the memory of life, but the memory of life was tainted with the anticipatory memory of dying, then death.

Reid scrapped his plan of drawing his revolver. He came up with a new plan. He remembered another revolver, one that had been called God's Will. Before God's Will had fired that one time into the air, God's Will had not fired those three times into his forehead. At the moment, God's Will, not his own revolver, was the weapon that Reid wanted to feel in his fingers. He fumbled in his messenger bag and retrieved Tobias Hankel's loaded revolver. He hoped that the binary sequence of 000 would not repeat itself. What he needed, as he scrunched himself between two dumpsters to face his attackers, was a binary sequence of 111. When he counted them, he was not surprised by the number of attackers bearing down upon him - one, two, three.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The advancing footsteps hit the ground with heavy thuds at low frequency. When he turned, Reid was not surprised to see a tall imposing figure looming beyond a curtain of rain. He shot the figure through the heart, felling it before it moved another inch towards him. The figure stumbled backwards and crumpled to the pavement, following the path of its useless unused knife. The sound of the knife clattering over the asphalt was obscured by the sound of the second shot, the one that plowed through the throat of a smaller slighter figure, who collapsed voicelessly, paying a price for its momentary hesitation. The third figure, unarmed and panic-stricken, turned and fled. Reid gave chase.

The predator-prey simulation played itself out within seconds. The predator sprinted after the sprinting prey, its long legs carrying it effortlessly down the alley, its large feet splashing up miniature tsunamis of puddle water. The prey weaved back and forth as it ran, hoping that its weaving would throw off the predator's aim, knowing that its weaving would slow itself down as well.

The predator waited until it had gained within five feet of the prey before firing. The shot missed, hitting the head rather than the torso, which law enforcement personnel were trained to target, due to its greater surface area and lesser degrees of freedom. The prey dropped in mid-stride as the bullet pierced its brainstem. It flopped face-first onto a pile of soggy brown leaves, their autumn dullness abruptly infused with the thick metallic richness of blood.

Reid shortened his stride and pulled up to the feet of his victim. He panted with his hands on his knees. He exhaled breaths of warm moist air, the small white clouds rushing out of his lungs in their eagerness to frolick in the rain. He inhaled rapidly, pushing his abdomen outwards as he sucked in gulp after gulp of air, dispatching a nourishing stream of oxygen to his racing brain. After a minute, he gained enough composure to stoop down and palpate for a pulse at the carotid artery.

Finding none, Reid straightened up and peered cautiously down the alley in both directions. No figures sprang out to shadow the darkness. No footsteps sprang up to accompany the storm. The binary sequence of 111 had attracted no one to the crime scene. This area of Washington, DC, two blocks north of FBI Headquarters in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, was usually deserted at night, save for a few muggers and loiterers who had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go.

The rain fell harder as Reid retraced his steps towards 10th Street. An errant gust of wind, blowing from the east, aided his progress through the storm. He avoided the rivulets of blood that colored the rainwater pink. Most of the blood had already swirled down the drain, so he had no need to tiptoe around it until he reached the source.

At the source, Reid checked for signs of life amidst the stillness. The larger figure lay on its back, its aorta ruptured by the passage of a bullet through the ascending section. The smaller figure lay on its side, its spinal cord severed by the passage of a bullet through the neck, front to back. All three victims had died quickly. Death had worked its way from the heart up the spine to the brain, and Reid doubted that any of the dead, when dying, had put up much of a struggle.

A final glance backwards, and it was high time to flee. Reid restored God's Will to its designated pocket in his messenger bag. He retrieved his umbrella from the ground and adjusted the canopy over the spokes. He was soaked, through and through, but he still considered the umbrella a shield against the pouring rain.

* * *

The rest of the evening passed without incident. Reid arrived home around 10 PM. He hung his jacket from a hook on the door, tossed his umbrella into the kitchen sink, and dumped his messenger bag onto the floor. He stowed his gun in its usual location in the top drawer of the nightstand. He took a shower and crawled into bed. Within five minutes, he was asleep. Within thirty minutes, he was awake, feeling like he had slept for a whole night with nothing to show for it but a nagging sensation at the back of his neck.

Reid burrowed deeper into the covers, curling himself into a ball within the pocket of air that he had warmed up with his own body heat. The nagging sensation wormed its way under the sheets, wrapping its tentacles over his shoulders and threatening to smother him with its unbearable persistence. He wiggled his shoulders, trying to shake it off, but it clamped its suckers tightly onto his back. The sensation spoke to him in his own voice, asking a simple question for which there was no simple answer. How had it come to this?

With all the things that had ever happened in his life, it was not the first time that this particular voice had asked this particular question. Reid knew exactly how to respond.

He pushed away the covers and bounded onto the floor from his high bed. Through the moon-lit darkness, he padded into the adjoining bathroom. From the medicine cabinet, he grabbed a bottle of Tylenol. He popped three tablets into his mouth, turned on the faucet, and scooped up enough water in his hands to wash down the pills. He returned to bed, yawning and blinking as he crawled back under the covers. In fifteen minutes, once the side effects of Tylenol had set in, he would be happily asleep in his warm comfortable bed on a Friday at midnight.

Tylenol, with its active ingredient acetaminophen, was not approved by the FDA for use as a sleeping pill. It was only used for its sedative purposes in the Reid household, ever since Reid had stopped using harder drugs to fulfill the same needs. For some people, acetaminophen caused drowsiness, such that they should never operate motor vehicles or heavy machinery after an administration of the drug. For Reid, acetaminophen caused extreme drowsiness, such that he could always depend on the drug to send him into a restful slumber whenever he felt the need to escape. For Reid, acetaminophen was basically morphine. He had not discovered the benefits of Tylenol until the past couple of years, because he had grown up taking Advil as his analgesic of choice. If Advil, with its active ingredient ibuprofen, had possessed the same properties as Tylenol, then Reid would never have become addicted to Dilaudid. Neither would he have become addicted if he had grown up taking Tylenol in the first place. If he had grown up taking Tylenol, then he would have known about the beneficial side effects, and he would have substituted the non-addictive aniline analgesic for the addictive opioid analgesic. As usual, in this and many other areas, his life history had worked against him. When he was four, the family cat had died after accidentally ingesting a tablet of Tylenol that his father had dropped on the floor. Cats lacked the necessary enzymes to break down acetaminophen. For cats, acetaminophen was basically strychnine. After the tragic incident, his mother had banned Tylenol from the house. She had also refused to get another cat, and to this day, she still petted the specter of the huge fluffy Maine coon, Felix sylvester, whenever she remembered to miss her family.

Reid lay awake in bed, freely indulging in fear, disgust, and remorse, now that he was guaranteed an escape from reality. He began negotiating his way through the five stages of grief, originally set forth by Elizabeth Kuebler-Ross in her book, "On Death and Dying".

In the first stage, Denial, Reid tried to convince himself that his actions had constituted self-defense. When he had shot the first mugger, he had only been defending himself. Actually, at the time, he had not even been consciously defending himself. He had pulled the trigger as a subconscious physical response to the impending knife attack. That one had not counted. When he had shot the second mugger, he had been consciously defending himself. That one had counted, but it could be excused in a court of law. When he had shot the third mugger, he had not been defending himself at all. He had been playing out the predator-prey simulation of the novice killer. That one had counted, and it was inexcusable.

The third shot was premeditated murder, and so, by extension, were the first two. All three shots had been fired from the same weapon. In an act of self-defense, Reid would have drawn the first weapon within his reach. That was the revolver in its holster on his belt. In an act of murder, Reid had drawn a different weapon. That was the revolver in his messenger bag, which he had needed to unbuckle and unzip before he had felt the strength of God's Will in his fingers. In the final minute before he fell asleep, Reid realized that God's Will had been nothing but an expression of his own will.

In the same minute, he vowed to confess his sins and make amends, however costly those amends turned out to be. On Friday morning, when he arrived at the office, he would knock on Hotch's door and tell Hotch the whole story of what had happened the night before. Hotch, who had once been an attorney, would advise him on his options. Surely, he would have to pay a price for murdering three human beings, muggers or not. He was happy to pay a price, as long as he could also figure out, in the intervening years, why he had done it. Like Chester Hardwicke before his execution, Spencer Reid was not willing to escape from reality until the question had been answered. How had it come to this?

At midnight, Reid fell asleep.

* * *

This time, when he awakened from the dream, Reid experienced a soft serene well-being. The feeling, like that of waking from a fever alleviated by a drug-induced slumber, arose from the dream, which had done its duty to conflate reality with fantasy. In fantasy, the events of the previous night had occurred, in their exact sequence and with their exact details, a countless number of times. In reality, the events had occurred once. Reality could never compare to fantasy. In reality, Reid had murdered three people, but when conflated with fantasy, Reid had murdered three people in a dream. From the one old man to the three muggers, the crimes had escalated, and Reid was disturbed that his subconsious mind had come up with such a sequence of events. He reminded himself not to mention any of this at work, lest his friends and colleagues, who had been eagerly awaiting the opportunity, used his purported hallucinations as an excuse to commit him to the loony bin. Before he left on his morning commute, he did not check the number of bullets in Tobias Hankel's revolver.

At work, on a cold sunny morning in November, Reid knocked on the door of Hotch's office.

"Yeah, Reid, come in," Hotch waved at him through the open blinds.

"Um...Hi Hotch," Reid opened the door a crack, squeezed through the narrow opening, and closed the door behind him. "Sorry I missed you yesterday when you got back from the case. I was over at the Academy for a special seminar," he lied. "'Evolution of Motive and Intent in Serial Offenders With Poor Impulse Control'. The speaker argued that such offenders have no motives, or specific reasons, for committing their crimes, but they have the intent, or specific desire, to do so. Over time, as the offender evolves, motive becomes conflated with intent, such that the only reason for committing the crimes becomes the desire itself. Ironically, the more frequently the offender gives in to his emotional desires, the more clinical, calculated, and intellectual his crimes become. Eventually, when the offender is caught, the authorities find him unable to analyze his motives or express his intent, instead relying on others to speak for him. He recalls only the physical details of the crimes, not his own intellectual or emotional involvement, and this detachment is often viewed as a lack of remorse, leading judges and juries to impose the harshest sentences, such as life in prison or the death penalty. In my opinion, the majority of offenders do feel genuine remorse, but the remorse is masked behind the psychological trauma incurred by the offender over the series of crimes."

"You've been keeping yourself busy," Hotch smirked drily.

"Uh...Yeah...I guess I have," Reid stammered. "I didn't really have anything to do this week, while everyone else was away on the case..." he dropped his eyes to the floor.

"I take it that you know what happened on the case?" Hotch asked.

"Garcia told me all about it," Reid replied. "Sorry to hear that the case didn't go well..."

"Well, that's how cases go sometimes," Hotch sighed. "Or to use Garcia's terminology, 'The case went to the Deepest Depths of Hell.' The BAU may be an elite team, but we can't guarantee happy endings, and our record is far from perfect."

"Yeah, the Olympic Park bombing, Amerithrax, the Beltway snipers, the Chicago Tylenol murders," Reid listed the imperfections. "We've failed on a number of high-profile cases," he added, neglecting to mention that the recited failures had all occurred prior to his own stint in the BAU.

"Each failure takes some time to get over," Hotch remarked, "Even if the Bureau eventually solves the case and catches the UnSub. Afterwards, you're constantly questioning yourself, wondering why you didn't know this little factoid or why you didn't notice that tiny detail, either of which could have led you to the UnSub."

"It's hard to let go of failure," Reid said. "Ten successes can't make up for one failure. People remember failures more than successes."

"Tell me about it," Hotch nodded. "Better yet, tell Gideon. He had Boston, with Adrian Bale and the six dead agents, then a whole string of successes after he came back, then Frank. After Frank, it was all over for Jason Gideon in the BAU."

"Gideon was tired of playing the game," Reid explained. "To him, each case was a chess game. As soon as he finished one game, he found himself starting another. They were all variations on the same theme."

"You make it sound like Gideon was bored with his job," Hotch said. "Actually, now that I think about it, maybe he was. Along with you, he was the most brilliant mind we've ever had in the BAU," he paused, hesitating and considering, before making up his mind to speak his mind. "Let me ask you something, Reid, but don't take this the wrong way. Do you often find yourself with nothing to do here? Do you often find yourself bored with your work? At this moment, do you still find your job as intellectually stimulating as it was when you first joined the BAU?"

"What? What do you mean?" Reid widened his eyes in concern. "No, Hotch, I'm not bored with my work. I've got plenty to do here. Sometimes, it looks like I'm sitting at my desk doing nothing, but I swear that I'm always thinking about the cases."

"Calm down, Reid, I'm not questioning your diligence," Hotch reassured him. "But I couldn't help noticing that you've been a little unfocused lately. You hardly ever speak up during case briefings anymore. In fact, it often looks like you're tuning out on purpose. That's why I asked you to sit out the latest case. I thought that a break would help you refocus on upcoming cases. We're going to need you on those cases, Reid. I know that I was blunt on the phone last week, but this was my only rationale for leaving you behind."

"Oh," Reid stared, digesting the unexpected insight into Hotch's thought processes. "Um...I guess you're right that I've been distracted lately. I've been thinking about some other projects, turning over some other ideas in my head. Work-related projects and ideas," he added.

"New theories to publish?" Hotch asked. "Statistical analyses of old cases? Mathematical formulas for geographical profiling?"

"Yeah, pretty much all of those," Reid lied. "I promise that I won't let them affect my work anymore. Actually, I think I'll drop them. They're not that important."

"Don't do that," Hotch said. "We need you to advance the field, even if it costs us some of your expertise on current cases. It'll benefit the BAU in the long run. But I have a feeling that you can juggle both worlds and still have time to school the child prodigies and old geezers in chess games at the park. Am I right, Reid?"

"You know about my chess games at the park?" Reid asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

"We unit chiefs have our ways of finding things out," Hotch replied slyly. "Although I still haven't put together the exact nature of Emily's Sin-to-Win weekends. But that's because I don't really want to know. Anyway," his tone turned serious, "I've been meaning to ask you for a favor, which you shouldn't feel pressured to do if you don't want to."

"Sure, Hotch, anything," Reid leaned forwards in his chair.

"It's come to my attention that Garcia is not an ideal fit for the case screening job," Hotch explained. "First of all, she maintains a natural aversion to the cases. I don't blame her for that at all. But the real issue is that she's becoming stressed out with the sheer amount of material that she has to wade through on a daily basis. She still has her duties as a technical analyst, which is a full-time job in and of itself. I was thinking that with your reading speed and special skills, you'd be an ideal fit for the case screening job, if you're willing to take it. Normally, I would've gone ahead and hired another media liaison, but Section Chief Erin Strauss has recently cut out that portion of our budget. Apparently, a smaller annual requisition enhances her reputation in the eyes of the executive branch. I was hoping that the two of us could work together to help her realize her dream of becoming the FBI Director."

"Sure, Hotch," Reid brightened visibly. "I can take over the case screening job. No problem! I can start on the case files right away. I know there's a huge backlog in JJ's office. How about I start going through the case files today so I can have a new case ready to go by Monday?"

"You wouldn't want to handle the media too, would you, Reid?" Hotch smiled at the poorly contained excitement. "Maybe you'd like to conduct a few three-hour-long press conferences? Answer reporters' questions for thirty minutes a pop? Make the reporters wish that they had never asked the questions? Make the reporters wish that they had never become reporters? You can have that job too, if you want it."

"You're making fun of me, Hotch," Reid declared.

"I know," Hotch nodded sagely, "And I know that I shouldn't do it. We unit chiefs should never lower our inscrutable monotonous facades."

"I didn't mean that..." Reid started, but stopped when he noticed Hotch's lowered facade.

"I really appreciate this, Reid," Hotch said. "To be honest, this takes a ton of weight off my shoulders. Since JJ left, I've been staying late every night, helping Garcia with the case screening. Garcia's been staying late too, working on the case screening software, but it appears that in this area at least, computer programs won't be supplanting human brains anytime soon."

"No problem, Hotch. I'm glad to help," Reid said. "Case screening will help me focus my mind back on the cases and away from other projects and ideas. And you'll get to spend more time with Jack. And Garcia will get to spend more time with Kevin."

"Good, I'm sure that Kevin Lynch is flattered that you're taking an interest in his personal relationships," Hotch snarked warmly. "It's almost ten, Reid. Isn't it time for you to be punching in at your new job?"

"Oh right!" Reid jumped up from his chair, "I'd better get started right away! I'll be in JJ's office if you need me," he exited Hotch's office, throwing the door open, traipsing through the wide opening, and slamming the door shut behind him. "Sorry about that!" he jerked the door open to apologize for slamming the door shut. "I'll be really busy for the rest of the day, so I'll see you on Monday morning for the case briefing."

"Perfect," Hotch replied in his usual monotone. "I'll let Garcia know that she's off the hook. I have a feeling that she'll be secretly pleased, or knowing Garcia, that she'll be openly delighted."

Reid nodded, smiled, waved, and backed out of the office. In the corridor outside, he heaved a deep breath. The dreaded meeting with Hotch had gone extraordinarily well. In the BAU, faster than a speeding bullet from the barrel of God's Will, the balance of power had shifted.

* * *

Before he punched in at his new job, where he was his own boss, Reid decided to do his old boss a favor. He decided to solve the latest case _in cerebro_. He closed the blinds in JJ's office, turned on the desk lamp, and picked up the case file for 'Evil Twin, Eviler Twin'.

The first detail that struck him was the birthdates, plural, of the twin brothers. The older brother had been born on December 31, 1984 at 11:55 PM. The younger brother had been born on January 1, 1985 at 12:12 AM. On their own, the birthdates were insignificant, but taken together, they implied a specific dynamic for the relationship between the twin brothers.

Contrary to his initial conjectures, the brothers did not constitute a twin pair. They constituted a dominant-submissive pair. The older brother was the dominant, but the younger brother was the killer.

Growing up, the older brother had always bragged that he was older, a whole year older, as evidenced by his birth year in comparison to his brother's. Among children, older was better, and so was bigger, which the older brother had also claimed over the younger. Reid could see it in family photos. The older brother had always been an inch or so taller than the younger brother, until the year the twins had graduated from high school, when the younger brother had finally caught up. As adults, the twins were the same height, having both maxed out their height potential at 6'4".

As a kid, Reid had always been younger and smaller than all the other kids. He understood what it was like to be younger and smaller. Kids who were younger and smaller were constantly picked on by the older bigger kids, even if the older bigger kids were only minutes older and millimeters bigger than the younger smaller kids. Age and size set the foundation for the pecking order in miniature dystopian societies. In such a society, the younger smaller brother had naturally assumed the submissive role, fueled as he was by his inadequacy in the face of his older bigger twin. The brothers were twins, so the younger smaller brother must have wondered why he had been doomed to be younger, born in a whole other year, and why he had been doomed to be smaller, always a little too short to beat his brother in a footrace or a little too light to beat his brother in a wrestling match.

Over the years, an inferiority complex had set in and built up. The younger brother had maintained a harmless submissive facade while his frustration had seethed just below the surface. A year ago, when his parents had retired and moved away, he had lowered his facade. Freed from the rigid sheltered environment of his childhood, he had given in to his desires. He had possessed the emotional intent, but not the intellectual motive, to kill. One crime had led to another, until the only reason that he killed was to satisfy the desire to kill. When the older brother had found out about the murders, he had naturally assumed the dominant role, protecting his twin by obfuscating their identities at their favorite hangout. The older brother had always been the smarter one. He had always gotten better grades at school, which was why Hotch and Rossi had suspected him over his twin. Hotch and Rossi had failed to think outside the box. Outside the box, the only way to bring down the brothers was to goad the submissive killer into implicating the dominant obstructor. In dominant-submissive pairs, when the partners were arrested, it was always the submissive who implicated the dominant and the dominant who protected the submissive. Of course, loyalty between criminals only went so far, so the partnership would eventually break down, and each would eventually implicate the other.

Reid rolled his chair back from the desk, savoring the symphony that had composed itself behind his eyes. He checked his watch. It was half past twelve, and Hotch had already gone out for lunch.

Reid leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. He couldn't wait for Hotch to get back, so he could rush into Hotch's office to explain his chain of reasoning, spewing out factoids and details without conscious control, the itty bitty crumbs convincing Hotch that he had solved the case. He would explain that the twins were a dominant-submissive pair in which the dominant and the submissive represented the intellectual fugue and the emotional fantasia. Hotch would stare, but Reid would go on to explain that the twins suffered from the opposite of dissociative identity disorder. They were two bodies, one identity, with the two separate parts of the one identity residing in the two separate bodies. One was the dominant, and one was the submissive. One was the intellectual, and one was the emotional. One was the obstructor, and one was the killer. Hotch would glare, but his eyes would soften and light up as he processed the information through his slow creaky mind. He would smile when he realized that Reid had snatched success from the jaws of failure. Like Gideon, Hotch maintained a bad habit, believing as he did in happy endings.

Reid spun around and around in his chair as he counted down the minutes to the end of the lunch hour. In his mind, he explored new ideas in the context of new projects. He wondered about obstructors and killers. Could one identity in one body alternate between the roles - sometimes an obstructor and sometimes a killer? Garcia had said that obstructors and killers were the same. Obstructing, in a dark office filled with potential cases, cleared the way for killing, in a dark alley filled with potential victims. Killing, in the form of unburied bodies, needed obstructing, in the form of buried cases. Could obstructor and killer merge into one, as could intellectual and emotional, dominant and submissive, motive and intent? Could one identity in one body alternate between the roles - sometimes a killer and sometimes an obstructor? Could the identity be a savior as well, granting life and death where it saw fit to grant them? Would the granting of life, in the form of crimes solved, make up for the granting of death, in the form of crimes committed? Most importantly, could the identity avoid paying a price - the question for which there was no answer?

At 1:11 PM, before he left JJ's office to knock on Hotch's door, Reid checked the number of bullets in Tobias Hankel's revolver. The id and the ego shook hands in the absence of the super-ego, which had wandered off in search of its own happy endings. The id and the ego agreed on one point.

Even though it had come to this, trios, in a loaded-unloaded pair, were still beautiful.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The five stages of grief did not compose a continuous spectrum. Denial did not blend seamlessly into Anger, nor Anger into Bargaining, nor Bargaining into Depression, nor Depression into Acceptance. Grief was not a rainbow. It only appeared to be one.

In a rainbow, a droplet of water split a beam of white light into a continuous spectrum of colors. The spectrum contained every wavelength of visible light, from violetest violet to reddest red, but the human brain perceived only seven colors, ROY G. BIV, according to Isaac Newton's irrational numerological obsessions. As a result of human perception, the seven colors of the rainbow were as artifactual as the five stages of grief. In the case of the rainbow, a continuous spectrum was mistaken for a set of discrete bands. In the case of grief, a set of discrete bands was mistaken for another set of discrete bands. In one set, the bands had breadth, such that they filled the space between them with their own substance, and the subject strolled through them, retracing his steps as needed, until he reached the final stage. In the other, the bands were lines, separated by vast stretches of empty space, in which the subject wandered indefinitely, without a corpuscle of substance to refract through the prism of his reflective psyche.

The disappearance of three bullets from Tobias Hankel's revolver convinced Reid that the events of the previous night had indeed occurred. Now, in the aftermath of the conviction, when the initial thrill had passed, he felt nothing.

It was not the first time that Reid had felt nothing after killing someone. The first time had been Philip Dowd, in the hospital, with Hotch's gun. The second time had been Tobias Hankel, in the graveyard, with Hankel's gun. The third time had been the nameless muggers, in the alley, with God's Will.

All three times, the progression had been the same. Seconds before the shot, Reid had felt fear. Seconds after the shot, Reid had felt relief. Minutes, hours, and days after the shot, Reid had felt nothing.

The first time that he had killed someone, Reid had sought counsel from Gideon. It had been on the plane ride home from the sniper case. Today, sitting in JJ's office, Reid recalled his exact words, complete with the self-conscious starts and stops of his 24-year-old naivete.

"I, I know I should feel bad about what happened...I, I mean, I killed a man...You know, I, I, I should feel something. But I don't."

After a short pause, Gideon had responded. Reid recalled Gideon's exact words.

"Not knowing what you feel? That's not the same as not feeling anything."

At the time, the words, coming from his mentor, had made perfect sense. It was alright that he did not know what he felt. Soon, it would all hit him, and he would find out.

Weeks later, when he still did not know what he felt, he had realized that his mentor had missed the point. On the plane, Reid had stated that he had felt nothing. Misconstruing his words, Gideon had filled in the empty space with all the colors of the visible spectrum. The colors had combined to produce white light, an indefinable feeling that, over time, could have resolved itself into its well-defined components. It could have done so in a moment of epiphany, like the sunlight shining through a curtain of water droplets to form a rainbow. It could have done so sequentially, through a glass prism, with white light entering at one surface and colored bands exiting at the other. Both processes required the light, which could hardly have passed through raindrop or prism, if it was nothing but a figment in the darkness. That was what Gideon always did - suck in the words of others, squeeze them through his own psyche, and spew out words that were more relevant to himself than to the others who had sought his counsel.

The second time that he had killed someone, Reid had not sought Gideon's misguided counsel. The drug had taken care of everything. Where there had been colors, the drug had combined them into white light. Where there had been light, the drug had extinguished it into darkness. Reid had felt nothing by choice.

The third time that he had killed someone, Reid had broken his habit of seeking counsel. By now, he was used to feeling nothing, but he could not help wondering what if. What if he had felt something the first time? Even an indefinable white light would have been better than nothing. What if he had felt something the second time? There had been colors and lights the second time, but the drug had smothered them. Reid was sure that if he had felt something those other times, then he would have felt something this time. He knew that he wanted to feel something, because he was also sure that it was wrong to feel nothing. If it was wrong to feel nothing, then he had never been right, not even the first time, when he had been young and innocent, more than a year before he had encountered the drug.

From the data, the only conclusion that Reid could draw was that there was something fundamentally wrong with him. The conclusion, cold and hard, brought him comfort. If there was something fundamentally wrong with him, then the question that appeared to have no answer truly had no answer, and he could finally answer it.

How had it come to this? It had always been this way.

* * *

"Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo," Morgan sing-songed the Twilight Zone theme outside JJ's office. "Hey Reid, are you still alive in there?" he pounded his fist against the door. "Are you communing with the Mothership? Does the Mothership have cookies? Prentiss and I have cookies, and we know you want some!"

"Open up, Reid!" Prentiss knocked sharply. "Unless you're having your regularly scheduled Alone Time, in which case, please don't open up!"

"Hey," Reid opened the door a crack and poked his head through.

"What are you doing in there?" Prentiss asked. "It's half past six. You've been in there for four hours straight, with the door locked and the blinds closed."

"I'm screening cases," Reid lied. "I'm giving the case briefing on Monday. I like to have it dark and quiet when I'm concentrating."

"Right...Concentrating," Morgan air-quoted the word. "Cookies in the Round Table Room. You want some? JJ came by and left them for us a few minutes ago."

"JJ came by?" Reid asked excitedly. "JJ was here? Why didn't you come get me?" he frowned in displeasure.

"She didn't come up," Prentiss replied. "Morgan and I went downstairs to archive our case files, and we ran into JJ in the lobby. She was here to meet a team from the Counterintelligence Division. They're working on a joint project with the Department of Defense. Top secret! JJ knows all kinds of state secrets now."

"Yeah, we asked her about the project, but she wouldn't tell us anything," Morgan added. "She just gave us a bunch of sly looks and a platter of cookies from the meeting."

"But why didn't she come up?" Reid asked. "Why didn't you ask her to come up?"

"Well, it's Friday night, Reid," Prentiss pointed out the obvious. "She was eager to go home to Henry. Garcia's not even here today, and Hotch and Rossi are gone too. They flew out an hour ago to take care of that case in Indiana. Hotch is certain that they'll be able to get the brothers to implicate each other this time. Kudos to you for figuring it all out," she poked Reid teasingly in the arm.

"Yeah, Reid, you'd better stay away from the tainted food items in the future," Morgan said. "To think that we could've avoided spending a whole week in Indiana if you hadn't gotten food poisoning..." he shook his head in resignation.

"I thought it was the stomach flu," Prentiss said.

"Same difference," Morgan brushed her off. "You know what we need to do? We need to get Reid a food taster. That way, he can avoid getting poisoned, and we can avoid spending time in Indiana."

"You really don't like Indiana, do you?" Prentiss asked. "But you do realize that your idea would never work, right? A food taster might work for acute poisoning, but what about slow-acting poisons, poisons with delayed effects, or viruses and bacteria?"

"We can plan out Reid's entire menu, pre-cook the meals, have the food taster eat them, freeze them away, wait a few days to see if the food taster gets sick, then heat up the meals for Reid to eat," Morgan laid out his stroke of unmatched genius.

"Hmm, this idea has got definite potential," Prentiss nodded. "But you're forgetting one tiny detail. Strauss would never give us the budget for a food taster."

"You can do double duty," Morgan said. "Hotch is doing double duty as the unit chief and media liaison. Reid is doing the case screening in addition to his regular work. Garcia works with multiple teams. Why can't you be both a profiler and a food taster?"

"Why can't you?" Prentiss shot back.

"I don't want to eat any of Reid's meals," Morgan explained. "I've got my physical appearance to maintain. And my physical health as well. Reid's meals might work for Reid, but they don't exactly meet the basic nutritional requirements of a normal human being."

"Are you saying that Reid's physiology is not within normal limits?" Prentiss asked, scanning Reid up and down as he exited JJ's office and locked the door behind him. "And here I was, thinking that his brain was the only thing not within normal limits."

"Does he look like his physiology is within normal limits?" Morgan held his hands out towards Reid. "Do you have any idea how much sugar he consumes on a daily basis? Surely you've been here long enough to see him make coffee in the kitchen?"

"I wish I had his physiology," Prentiss sighed on her way to the Round Table Room.

"Don't worry, Girl, your physiology is fine by me," Morgan chuckled as he followed her.

"Excuse me?" Prentiss wheeled around. "Did you just call me 'Girl'? I'm going to assume that you've mistaken me for Garcia. I'm pretty sure that you've just sexually harassed me too, but I'm going to let it go this one time. It doesn't sound like you understand the difference between 'physiology' and 'physique'."

"Blame it on Indiana," Morgan laughed loudly. "Don't worry, it won't happen again. Not after my hot date this weekend..."

"You've got a date this weekend?" Prentiss asked. "Already? Are you telling me that, in the 28 hours since you've returned from Indiana, someone's already asked you out for the weekend?"

"You got that right," Morgan replied triumphantly. "By the way, for your information, it only took 3 hours. Jeanette, the Counterterrorism hottie from the third floor, asked me out yesterday. I think she's had her eye on yours truly for quite awhile now."

"Eww," Prentiss grimaced. "Not another one of your single-weekend honeys. You disgust me, Derek Morgan. You truly disgust me."

"What?" Morgan shrugged innocently. "Have you hit a dry spell lately? Are you jealous?"

"You wish," Prentiss pulled open the door to the Round Table Room.

Morgan laughed again as he followed her in and plopped himself into the nearest chair. Reid paused at the door to look in the direction of the elevators. He had barely heard any of the banter between his friends, not even the parts that pertained to himself. He had followed them silently down the corridor, thinking about JJ.

Why hadn't she come up? Why hadn't she come up to say hello, even for a few minutes? That was all it would have taken. Three minutes of her time. Why couldn't she spare three minutes to say hello? Was she going to be coming around again next week? Was she going to be coming around all the time to work on the joint project with Counterintelligence? Was that why she hadn't come up today? Because she would have plenty of opportunities in the future? But why hadn't she mentioned that to Morgan and Prentiss? Maybe she had. But why hadn't Morgan and Prentiss mentioned it to him? And couldn't she have acknowledged him some other way, even without coming up? Why hadn't she said something like, "Say hi to Reid for me" or "Tell Reid I said hello"? Why?

He knew why. She hadn't come up, because he was not worth the trouble, not even for a few minutes.

Prentiss had said it loud and clear. Garcia had taken a personal day to decompress from the case. Hotch and Rossi had flown off to Indiana to complete the case. JJ had greeted Morgan and Prentiss in the lobby. That left only Reid to say hello to, and clearly, in JJ's mind, Reid was not worth saying hello to. What hadn't she come up? Because he was not worth the trouble.

Did JJ think that he would take up all her time this evening, going on and on and on about some random subject that was irrelevant to her interests? Knowing that she was eager to go home to Henry, his godson, he wouldn't have done that at all. Since commencing Operation Headphones, Reid had learned to keep his mouth shut, even in the absence of the headphones. It was an exercise in impulse control. Hotch had indicated that the operation was working. It was working splendidly, maybe a little too splendidly. Hotch had complained that Reid hardly ever spoke up during case briefings anymore. That implied that Hotch wanted Reid to speak up more, not less. In his year of not speaking to Reid, Hotch's quota must have been drained away completely.

Reid decided to speak up more in the future, not just during case briefings, which he would now be giving, but also during all personal and professional interactions with his friends and colleagues. He would speak his mind. He would say whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He had been taking Operation Headphones much too seriously. It was better to be himself and admit that impulse control was not his forte. Controlling his impulses in one area had only channeled them into another area.

Reid grabbed a chocolate fudge cookie from the platter. He turned it over in his fingers, set it back onto the platter, and bit into a butterscotch cookie instead. The richness of the butter and the sweetness of the sugar soothed his mind, driving away his neurotic train of thought. He relaxed as a sense of belonging rose up to embrace him with its warmth and comfort. Significant portions of the quotas must have drained away for both Morgan and Prentiss if they had invited him into their social circle. This was the way it should be - a trio of friends and colleagues relaxing after a hard day's work.

"Here, Reid, you look like you might need some of this," Prentiss handed him a glass of golden fizzing liquid.

"What is it?" Reid sniffed the beverage.

"Cristal," Morgan answered. "Courtesy of Mommy Prentiss."

"You bought this?" Reid looked up at Prentiss.

"What part of 'Mommy' don't you understand?" Prentiss stared back in mock annoyance. "My mother gave me few cases last month. She found them sitting in a storage closet in her house. The label says 1991. I brought in a case for the team, to celebrate special occasions."

"What's the occasion?" Reid asked.

"You solving the case, Doofus," Prentiss grinned. "That was one case that could've spiraled seriously out of control. You should've seen those brothers, Reid. Two of the most textbook examples of psychopathy ever to walk the planet. No conscience whatsoever. Totally cold. Both the killer and the obstructor. Just like Garcia's been saying all week, 'The obstructor is no better than the killer. They're the same.' I doubt that either of them felt anything after their crimes."

"How do you know?" Reid asked, dropping his eyes to the platter of cookies to avoid all discerning gazes. "How do you know that they felt nothing?"

"Because they're psychopaths?" Morgan raised his eyebrows at the unexpected question. "They're born psychopaths who don't understand what it's like to empathize with others. They're completely amoral. They have no sense of right and wrong. Some psychiatrists describe psychopaths as 'intraspecies predators'. They have no function within society. Correction! Their only function within society is to disrupt it."

"The frustrating thing, besides there being no treatment for psychopathy, is that it's so hard for the rest of us to understand them," Prentiss said. "Even with our powers of empathy, it's a struggle for us to put ourselves in their shoes, to see the world through their eyes. The diseased mental state is just so far beyond the normal limits of human variation. It's completely outside the spectrum of normal human personalities."

"But if we can't put ourselves in their shoes, then how do we know that they feel no empathy for others, no remorse for their crimes, nothing?" Reid asked. "Some researchers have suggested that it's impossible for those of us within normal limits to understand the outliers. Take the example of autism. Psychiatrists can study the condition all they want, publish thousands of papers about it, attain Himalayan heights of pedantry, but do any of them actually understand what it's like to be autistic? I doubt it. And if they have no real understanding of the autistic individual, if they can't put themselves in his shoes, then how can they possibly provide an effective therapy for him?"

"You make it sound like psychopaths should be the ones studying each other," Prentiss remarked.

"Maybe they should," Reid suggested. "Maybe..."

"Hold it right there, Reid," Morgan put up his hand. "Don't tell me you're serious about this. Should psychopaths study each other as trained psychiatrists? Psychopathic shrinks? Should they be providing therapy to each other?"

"Maybe they should," Reid repeated.

"They have no empathy, Reid," Prentiss rejected the idea.

"How do you know?" Reid asked. "Maybe they do have empathy. Maybe they have empathy with each other. Maybe psychopaths don't empathize with normal people, but they do empathize with other psychopaths. Even among normal people, those of us with shared interests and similar personalities empathize more easily with one another. It's easier for me to empathize with a college professor than a professional football player. For each of us, the people we empathize with are the ones we end up befriending...dating...marrying. Right?" he appealed to his friends and colleagues.

"It does make a twisted sort of sense," Prentiss admitted. "But you're going too far with the suggestion that psychopaths should provide therapy to other psychopaths. I don't think it's possible for a psychopath to provide therapy to anyone."

"Why not?" Reid asked. "Psychopaths are still human. Most of them probably don't even deserve the label of insanity. They're not stark raving mad. Most of them are not even violent. Among the psychopaths, the violent criminals are the outliers. Outliers among outliers. Most psychopaths are just...different. Like aliens. They're aliens among us."

"Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo," Morgan sing-songed the Twilight Zone theme right on cue.

"I'm beginning to think that you're the alien among us, Reid," Prentiss commented with a swig of champagne. "Check it out, Morgan. The alcohol's having an effect on the alien! It's making the tentacles come out! Oh no! No, no, no! The tentacles! The antennae! The huge yellow bug eyes! Oh God, the alien's true form revealed! It's hideous!"

"I'll save us!" Morgan declared gallantly, swatting at the alien with a rolled-up packet of paper.

"Stop it, Morgan! You're getting alien goo all over that case file!" Prentiss cried.

"Oh God, it's all over my hands too!" Morgan ruffled Reid's hair, pulled his hand away, and gawked in horror at his goo-covered hand. "Augh! Augh! Augh!" he attacked his face with his goo-covered hand while attempting to wrench away the goo-covered hand with the unsullied hand.

"Let me help you!" Prentiss set down her glass and attempted to pull the partially assimilated hand from Morgan's face.

After a valiant struggle, in which the fate of the planet hung in the balance, Prentiss was able to free the offending hand from Morgan's face. Morgan gazed in wonder at his hand, turning it over several times to check for lingering symptoms of alien assimilation. Miraculously, the goo had evaporated into the air, and the appendage appeared to have returned within normal limits of human variation.

"Phew!" Morgan sighed heavily. "That was close! Thanks, Prentiss, I knew I could count on you," he downed his glass of champagne in celebration.

"Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo," Reid sing-songed on cue, bringing a close to the impromptu Twilight Zone episode.

Prentiss returned to her position on the table to pour a new round of champagne for all. Reid sipped at his glass, delighting in the taste of the drink and the company of his friends. He giggled under the influence of the warm buzz filling his stomach. The buzz traveled from his stomach to his brain, replacing the thoughts therein with its own soothing substance. He put the discussion of psychopathy out of his mind. Maybe he was an alien, but if he was, then he was among the most fortunate of his kind. Even a lifetime of pain, in which darkness filled in the empty space between the monochromatic bands, could still be punctuated with moments of pleasure.

* * *

On Saturday, a few minutes past midnight, Reid awakened from a catnap to find himself banging his head against the wall. He sat up in bed, rubbing at his throbbing temple. He climbed out of bed, nursing a rapidly developing migraine, and headed for the bathroom. Three tablets of Tylenol down the gullet, and it was back to bed for a restful slumber. As he lay in bed, waiting for both the main and side effects of Tylenol to set in, Reid worried about his new habit of falling asleep for the night only to wake up half an hour later. It had happened two nights in a row, and he had a feeling that it was bound to continue. He sighed softly under the covers, wondering when he would break the habit. For now, it was out of his control, but at least he had found a way to remedy it.

On Saturday morning, after waking up from a drug-induced slumber, Reid felt completely refreshed and ready to tackle all the case files in JJ's office. He should have done it yesterday, as he had promised Hotch, but he hadn't found the time or the energy to consider new cases, what with solving the old case, explaining the solution to Hotch, and hanging out with Morgan and Prentiss over cookies and Cristal. All in all, yesterday had been a wonderful day. Today held the same promise - a day of solitude in the meditative silence.

By 10 AM, Reid was sitting in JJ's office with the door locked and the blinds closed. He worked his way through a stack of case files, ones that JJ had personally assembled into FBI folders before she had been forced to leave. He flipped rapidly through the papers, his fingers traveling up and down the pages, his lips mouthing out the words and phrases that his brain chose to emphasize. He surveyed the photos a bit longer than the descriptions, darting his eyes over every pixel to extract every detail. By 2 PM, after consuming a stack of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches to match the stack of folders, Reid had gone through all the case files in JJ's office. He had picked out a case for the Monday morning briefing.

At 3 PM, Reid bundled up against the cold and headed out of the office. On his way home, he stopped by three of the nine crime scenes. The case was local, so he wanted to get a head start, putting himself in the crime scenes to get a feel for the settings. He imagined himself as a private eye in a detective novel, wandering the crime-ridden streets on his own time, hiring himself out to solve cold cases that the authorities had abandoned. At each crime scene, the private eye took neither notes or photos. For this particular case, the settings were not terribly important, so it was not necessary to take notes and photos. It was not necessary to visit the crime scenes at all. The latest crime, the last in the series of nine, was several days old, so all the bodies from all the crimes had long ago been carted away to the medical examiner, leaving the crime scenes as drab and squalid as they had been before the crimes had been committed in them. For Reid, the journey through the cold gusty twilight was not so much about putting himself in the settings of the crimes as it was about putting himself in the minds of the criminals.

At the third crime scene, while Reid stood in the shoes of the UnSub, a woman sauntered up to him in a low-cut blouse, short skirt, and high heels. He was so engrossed in the case that he did not notice her until she stopped at his side.

"Hey Honey," the woman whispered in a raspy voice. "You look cold. Want me to warm you up?" she grabbed his hand and blew on it to warm it up.

Reid jumped at the sound of her voice. He turned his head, giving her a startled look before jumping again at the sight of her face. Except for her hair, which was more strawberry blonde than honey blonde, and her neck, which was longer, thinner, and more elegant, the prostitute before him was the spitting image of Jennifer Jareau.

* * *

Note: Has anyone heard the song "Flagpole Sitta" by Harvey Danger? I just realized that song could be the theme song for this story.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The prostitute looked like JJ, so she was beautiful. She was so beautiful that Reid felt his stomach churn with a gnawing sensation, knowing that such a beautiful creature was such a filthy disgusting whore. Of all the women in the world who looked like JJ, it was his godawful luck to run into the prostitute among them.

"Want me to warm you up?" the prostitute repeated.

She shifted into his direct line of sight, arching her spine and planting her feet in a seductive stance that caused her breasts to dominate his field of view. He looked down at them, then up at her face. She tilted her chin upwards, as if presenting her soft feminine features for his scrutinizing perusal. He wondered if this was how she looked at all her clients. She moved his hand, the one that she had blown on, to her chest, inviting him to undo the top button of her blouse. He snatched his hand away, stuffing it into his pocket to keep it off her body. He was only interested in her face, because her face looked like JJ. He didn't know if the rest of her looked like JJ, because he didn't know what the rest of JJ looked like.

"How much?" Reid asked in a barely audible whisper.

"Fifty," the prostitute replied. "Special discount for you, Honey, cuz you look so cold and sad tonight. What happened? Did your girlfriend break up with you? I bet she's a bitch. Who needs her when you've got me?"

"Fifty dollars an hour?" Reid asked.

"Yeah, you pay first," the prostitute held out her hand, suddenly all business, now that she had gotten a bite on her hook.

"Here," Reid reached into his wallet, grabbed two twenties and a ten, and slipped them into her waiting fingers.

"You got your car around here?" the prostitute asked, looking towards the one-way side street beyond the walkway.

The covered walkway was a narrow concrete path behind a four-story apartment building. On one side was the building, and on the other side a row of dumpsters that served as the garbage stop for the residents of the building. The row of dumpsters blocked the view from the side street. The roof over the walkway blocked the view from the windows above. The UnSub had chosen an ideal location to commit his crime. The location was perfect in every way, as long as no one came downstairs to take out the garbage.

"Let's go over there," Reid pointed to an alcove between the farthest dumpster and the dead end.

"You wanna do it out here?" the prostitute wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"I already paid you," Reid pointed at her purse, wondering what a whore, a woman who hired herself out to perform all manner of degrading sex acts, could possibly be disgusted about.

"Fine," the prostitute rolled her eyes and led the way into the dark secluded corner.

"Do it again," Reid whispered, eagerly but hesitantly, hardly daring to believe that he was giving orders to a prostitute.

"Do what again?" the prostitute turned around to stand with her back against the wall.

"Roll your eyes," Reid indicated his own eyes. "Roll your eyes again."

The prostitute stared at him with her big beautiful blue eyes. Reid extended a probing finger and brushed an eyelash off the corner of her right eye. The prostitute blew away the eyelash as it lay on his finger, giggling with a timbre that matched her long thin elegant neck, its length and girth producing a sound that was more violin than viola, as JJ's voice had been. Reid beamed at her laugh and slipped another twenty into her hand. In return, she gave him a huge genuine smile and rolled her eyes several times in succession.

"I have a friend who looks just like you," Reid traced the outline of her chin with the same probing finger that he had used to brush away the eyelash. "She likes to roll her eyes at me when I go off on one of my tangents. Her eyes are a little bluer than yours, and her hair is a little blonder. She's a little taller than you are, and her build is a little thicker, but she's still very slender. I'd say that your build is more ectomorphic and that hers is a combination of ectomorphic and mesomorphic, lean but still curvy, muscular but still soft, athletic but still...dainty, when she wants to be. You're dainty all the time, probably because you've got a crack cocaine habit that keeps you on the streets. If you weren't a prostitute and you didn't have a crack habit, then you could be just like her. You already look so much like her. You look even more like her when you roll your eyes."

"Is she your girlfriend?" the prostitute raised her eyebrows in a questioning glance.

"No!" Reid snapped sharply. "If she were my girlfriend, do you think that I'd be hanging out here with you?"

"Sorry, sorry," the prostitute apologized hastily. "Geezus," she glanced sideways, then rolled her eyes again, this time as an involuntary response.

"I love it when you do that," Reid relaxed back into his curious examination of her face. "It makes you look prettier and younger," he checked her face for lines, focusing on the corners of her eyes and mouth to determine her age. "Not that you're old," he finished his assessment. "You're probably around her age, maybe even younger than her, maybe even younger than me, but you look older, because of the drugs. But you're still very pretty," he drank up her appearance with his eyes, boldly but shamefully, slightly annoyed with himself for commenting on her age in such an ungentlemanly manner.

"Um...Thanks," the prostitute frowned, creating a deep valley to mar the smooth skin between her eyebrows.

"Don't do that," Reid extended a finger to smooth away the wrinkle. "That's better," he grasped her by the shoulders, straightening her body and pushing himself backwards so he could examine her from the middle distance. "Do you like it?" he asked curiously. "Me telling you that you're pretty? Is that something that women like? Being told that they're pretty?"

"Sure," the prostitute stared at him with a bored expression on her face.

"What else do women like?" Reid asked earnestly.

"What do you mean?" the prostitute stared without comprehension, being more accustomed to inquiring after her clients' desires than her clients inquiring after her own.

"What do women like?" Reid inquired. "Besides being told that they're pretty, what do women like from men? I don't have much experience with women," he cast his eyes downwards, straight onto her breasts, in a bashful manner.

"I figured as much," the prostitute replied, his embarrassed admission softening her heart. "Well, Honey, let me explain it to you. The facts of life, so you can finally get your girl."

"I'm listening," Reid waited patiently.

"Well, let me think," the prostitute raised her eyes upwards, not rolling them this time. "Being told that you're pretty is nice and all, but what women really like...what women really want...is to be close to someone. I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about being close to someone in a warm comfortable dependable way - waking up together, sharing meals, going out and having fun or staying in and cuddling on a cold winter night..."

"Women like to cuddle?" Reid interrupted.

"Yeah, in a lot of ways, cuddling is better than sex," the prostitute explained. "Sex is exciting while you're doing it, but then it's all over, and what are you left with afterwards? Cuddling on the couch on a cold winter night...It's different. It's still and quiet and sweet. Time stops, and you feel like you could go on sitting there forever."

"You're a romantic," Reid commented.

"Me? A romantic?" the prostitute rolled her eyes. "Believe me, Honey, there's no room for romance in my line of work."

"I wonder if JJ is a romantic," Reid gazed at the bricks behind the woman's head.

"Is that your friend? The one who looks like me?" the prostitute asked.

"Yeah," Reid said softly. "Did you know that I asked her out on a date once? I was so surprised when she agreed to go out with me. I thought that I was living in a dream, that whole week leading up to our date on Sunday. I kept imagining myself walking around with JJ or standing in line with JJ or sitting on a bench with JJ. That whole week leading up to our date was probably the happiest week of my life."

"What happened?" the prostitute asked. "Did she stand you up?"

"No," Reid frowned at the idea. "JJ would never do that. I picked her up at her apartment, and she laughed when she saw my car. I usually take the Metro to work, so she had never seen my car before. She probably didn't even think that I could drive," he chuckled a little. "A lot of people think that when they see me...The absent-minded professor type with his head in the clouds...It's not a good idea for him to drive."

"Where did you go for your date?" the prostitute prompted, happy to earn her keep with conversation rather than the alternative.

"We went to a football game," Reid replied. "A Redskins game, back when I didn't even know that the Redskins were a football team. JJ's a big Redskins fan. She told me all about football on our drive to the stadium, and once we got there, she bought me a giant foam finger and made me wave it around every time the Redskins got a first down. I bought her food - beer, hot dogs, candy. We stuffed ourselves and cheered. Even I cheered, and I'm not the cheering type. But it was a good thing that I cheered, because it distracted me from talking about things that she wasn't interested in, like brain remodeling due to sports-related head injuries and their contributions to violent behavior in former athletes many years after retirement."

"Sounds like a fun date to me," the prostitute remarked. "Wish that someone like you would take someone like me on a date like that..." she gave him a friendly nudge.

"Really?" Reid searched her eyes for sincerity. "I thought so too, that it was a fun date. I had such a great time with JJ. I thought that she enjoyed it too, but afterwards, when I dropped her off at her apartment, she told me that she wasn't interested in another date with me. She wasn't interested in me. She only wanted to be friends. I never asked her out again. I never told anyone...except you...about our date. I said that it was top secret, but the truth was that it wasn't really worth mentioning."

"Aww, poor thing," the prostitute ruffled Reid's hair in the same way that JJ had always done. "Well, think of it this way, Honey, she wasn't the one for you. You'll find someone else, someone better. There are plenty of fish in the sea."

"You know what else?" Reid ignored her sympathy, looking past her at the brick wall as if watching a movie upon it. "She even hugged me once. I don't think it counts as cuddling though. This one time, after I was abducted by a serial killer with dissociative identity disorder, and after the team found me at the graveyard, JJ hugged me. It wasn't just a little hug between work colleagues. It was a real hug. A big one! Unfortunately, I was all drugged up at the time, so I didn't get the full effect, but it was still nice."

"You were abducted by a serial killer?" the prostitute gawked in shock.

"Yeah, but he didn't kill me," Reid answered, oblivious to her surprise. "Obviously, he didn't kill me. I killed him instead, but he was only the second person I killed. More than a year before I killed Tobias, I killed another guy, a sniper, at the hospital. I shot him with my boss's gun during a hostage situation. And two days ago, this past Thursday, I shot three muggers in the alley behind the library. They died from the shots, so I killed them too. One of them ran away from me, but I chased him down in the predator-prey simulation of the novice killer. Good thing that my leg is all better now. I could never have done it last year, when I had to go around on crutches and a cane after getting shot in the knee."

"Wh..." the prostitute was rendered speechless by the unexpected revelations.

"It was only a few weeks after the Hankel case that JJ met Will," Reid continued. "We were investigating a series of murders in New Orleans, and Will LaMontagne was the lead detective on the case. He had taken over for his father, who had died during Hurricane Katrina. I was really screwed up during that case. At the time, I was trying to break my drug habit, trying to get off this drug that I became addicted to after the Hankel case. It wasn't my fault that I became addicted. Tobias kept giving me more and more of the drug, even after I told him that I didn't want it, that I didn't need it. He thought that he was helping me, because his father, who became one of his identities..." he paused, stepped back, and thought better of his comments. "I'm sorry," he shook his head in apology. "I'm boring you with the details. I'm always boring everyone with the details. When I look at a forest, I see every tree and bush and fern and lichen. Everyone else just sees the forest. The forest is beautiful, but it's even more beautiful if you can make out all the trees and take them out of the forest and put them back in again. JJ's afraid of the forest. I should've explained to her about the forest and the trees, but I would've gone on and on and on, and she would've rolled her eyes at me. I've got an impulse control problem. I've been working on it, wearing headphones at my desk, but it's hard to break the habit. One minute, someone wants me to speak up, and the next minute, someone else wants me to shut up. What am I supposed to do?" he sighed with a hint of annoyance, then anger, in his voice. "Maybe JJ wasn't right for me, if she couldn't see the trees for the forest. Do you think that was the problem? Or do you think that it was the drugs? I think she liked me more before the drugs, even though she only wanted to be friends. Maybe I should've told her about the drugs. Do you think that I should've told her about the drugs? Maybe it would've activated her maternal instincts. Do you think that if I told you that I was on drugs, that you'd like me more than if you suspected that I was on drugs, but I didn't actually tell you that I was on drugs?"

"I...I dunno..." the prostitute swallowed nervously.

"Will was charming and cleancut, everything that I wasn't," Reid dropped his questions about the drugs. "Will was a knight in shining armor. Isn't that every little girl's dream? A knight in shining armor coming to sweep her off her feet? At first, when I found out that JJ was secretly dating Will, I was jealous of him. But after awhile, I was more jealous of her. She was moving, and I was stuck. She and Will are still together. They have a baby together. Henry, my godson. Why did she make me Henry's godfather? I haven't figured it out yet. She only wanted to be friends before the drugs, and I had a feeling that she only wanted to be colleagues after the drugs. Maybe Garcia was the one who suggested it, and JJ was too nice to refuse. JJ's really nice, you know. She's really good with the victims' families. She's so nice that she even hugged me once. She's not like you. You'd only hug me if I paid you, right?"

"No," the prostitute shook her head timidly.

"Prove it!" Reid leaned in closer, pinning her against the wall as he breathed heavily into her face.

"How...I don't know...Here's your money back," the prostitute pulled the bills out of her purse and stuffed them into his coat pocket. "I've gotta go now. I gave you your money back, so please let me go now," she implored him with fear in her eyes.

"Will you give me a hug before you leave?" Reid asked.

"Sure...Why not?" the prostitute faked a small smile, eager to comply with his request in order to escape the sticky situation.

Reid leaned in and put his arms around her, pulling her towards him and burying his face in her hair, remembering to sniff the fragrant strands this time as he had forgotten to do last time. With her in his arms, he swayed back and forth, just like they had done in the graveyard in Georgia. He closed his eyes and willed time to stop so he could go on hugging JJ forever. When she tried to knee him in the crotch, he pulled away, wrapped the fingers of one hand around her long thin elegant neck, and slammed her head into the brick wall behind her. He wrapped both hands tightly around her neck and held on, one part of him recalling that it took eleven pounds of pressure to fully incapacitate the victim, and that if one held on for at least fifty seconds, then the victim would never recover, and another part of him holding on, only because it was easier to hold on than to let go.

"Please...Don't," the prostitute mouthed voicelessly through her constricting throat. "I'm not her...I'm not her..." she struggled, twisting her body this way and that while kicking outwards with her high-heeled shoes as her face turned redder and her lips bluer.

Reid ignored her struggles, barely even noticing the blows to his shins. He pressed his thumbs harder against her neck, one under her chin, the other over her carotid artery. Through the material of his gloves, he could feel her strong pulse resisting his tiring fingers. He pressed down harder, tilting her head upwards to access the top of her throat. The top of her throat felt different. It didn't pulse. It was an inert mass that neither pushed or pulled. He recalled that occlusion of the trachea required six times as much pressure as occlusion of the carotid arteries and jugular veins. Compression of the arteries and veins cut off the flow of blood between the heart and the brain, causing cerebral ischemia. Compression of the trachea cut off the flow of oxygen and carbon dioxide between the lungs and the atmosphere, causing asphyxia. It took only a few minutes for either condition to kill the victim. Manual strangulation, which generated both conditions simultaneously, was a classic case of overkill.

After the prostitute lost consciousness, Reid held on for another three minutes. After one minute, she stopped breathing. After two minutes, her heart stopped beating. After three minutes, her brain flickered out. By the fourth minute, when he finally let go of her neck, Reid was sure that she was dead, but he stuck around for another five minutes to eliminate the possibility of the Lazarus phenomenon. No one came downstairs to take out the garbage. Even if someone had, he would not have noticed the figures behind the farthest dumpster. Reid was silent and motionless, as was the prostitute. The last angry gasps of twilight had long since faded into the numbing darkness.

* * *

On Monday morning, the members of the BAU gathered in the Round Table Room for Reid's inaugural case briefing. To everyone's delight, he had chosen a local case, allowing them to recuperate from their week in Indiana among home-cooked dinners and familiar bedsheets. To everyone's surprise, he had chosen a case involving prostitutes.

"Since early October, ten prostitutes have been murdered in the northeast and southeast quadrants of Washington, DC," Reid began. "The victims died from a combination of blunt force trauma and exsanguination or from strangulation. In the three cases of blunt force trauma, the victim suffered multiple compound fractures in the femur, tibia, and fibula, indicating that the UnSub targeted the legs during his physical assault of the victim. In each case, the victim died of exsanguination caused by slashing of the carotid artery on one side of the neck. After the beatings, the UnSub posed the victim in a supine position on the ground, with her hands on her stomach and her hair fanned out beneath her head. He then severed her carotid artery to ensure her death before he vacated the crime scene. There was no evidence of rape. There were no prints of any kind, nor were any blunt or sharp objects left behind as murder weapons."

"Breaking the legs is a good way to keep the victims from running away," Prentiss remarked.

"Yeah, but wouldn't the victims have screamed their heads off from the pain of the broken bones?" Morgan asked. "Sounds like a disorganized killer to me. An organized killer would've chosen a less haphazard M.O. Imagine the UnSub chasing down a victim, aiming at her legs with his baseball bat while she's running around screaming bloody murder..."

"We're definitely dealing with an organized killer," Reid rejected Morgan's idea. "And I'll show you why in a little bit."

"Ohhhhhhh, the Good Doctor will show us why in a little bit," Garcia spoke in hushed tones as everyone else ignored her or shot her a warning glance.

"In the remaining seven cases, all the victims died of strangulation - three ligature and four manual," Reid continued. "The strangulation victims were posed in the same position on the ground, but they were not exsanguinated. In the cases of ligature strangulation, based on the ligature marks, the murder weapon was probably an elastic cord with a braided polypropylene sheath."

"A bungee cord," Rossi summarized. "Not a professional bungee-jumping version? More like the kind that you can buy at Walmart to tie a mattress to the roof of a car?"

"Yes, a regular elastic cord with plastic hooks on the ends," Reid replied. "In the cases of manual strangulation, the UnSub also left behind ligature marks, but the finger marks covered the entire neck area, such that the individual fingers overlapped and could not be distinguished from one another. No viable fingerprints were collected. Skin samples extracted for DNA analysis yielded no results."

"So the UnSub wore gloves," Prentiss said. "That's a sign of organization."

"Did the UnSub progress from one M.O. to another over time?" Hotch asked. "From blunt force trauma to ligature strangulation to manual strangulation?"

"That's exactly where I was going next," Reid said. "Here are the photos of the victims, displayed in order, from the first crime on Friday, October 8, to the last crime on Saturday, November 20, this past Saturday. For the latest murder, I just got the call half an hour before this meeting."

Reid flicked on the projector, filling the screen with ten photos of dead prostitutes. He watched his colleagues gasp in surprise and fidget in their seats.

"Do you see why I said that we're dealing with an organized killer?" Reid asked the silent room.

"Yeah," Morgan leaned back with his hands behind his head. "Check out the victims' hair. Say it with me - brunette, blonde, brunette, blonde, brunette, blonde..." he trailed off, sensing that his teammates had gotten the point.

"All the way from one to ten," Prentiss pointed her pen at the photo in the lower righthand corner. "Last victim, blonde," she chewed at her pen.

"Tell me when it's over," Garcia covered her eyes with her hands. "Good thing I dyed my hair red," she indicated her clownish orange dye-job.

"Do you have any of that hair dye left?" Prentiss smoothed back her own hair.

"Need I remind you that the two of you are not prostitutes?" Rossi snarked in his usual manner.

"Huhhhnnnn-huhhhnnnn-huhhhnnnn," Morgan chuckled. "Not that we know of..."

"Normally, the murders of ten prostitutes over a six-week period would have attracted attention, but not enough to alert the BAU," Reid began again. "As we all know, violence against prostitutes is common. In terms of homicide, female prostitution is the most dangerous occupation in the United States. The homicide rate for female prostitutes is 204 per 100,000, which is much higher than that for the next riskiest occupation, male cab drivers at 29 per 100,000. In this case, the posing of the victims, with an emphasis on the hair, and the alternating pattern of pigmentation indicates an organized serial killer preying specifically on prostitutes in the city."

"The UnSub progressed from the beating/slashing combo to ligature strangulation to manual strangulation," Hotch said. "Going from killing people with weapons to killing people with his bare hands. It looks like he's devolving over time."

"But he's maintained the posing and the alternating victimology, so the degree of devolution, if any, is limited," Rossi said.

"I agree with Dave," Reid said. "Going from beating and slashing to strangling is not necessarily a devolution. As Morgan pointed out earlier, beating a victim with a baseball bat is a very haphazard method of killing someone," he nodded at Morgan. "Afterwards, the UnSub had to slash the victim's neck to ensure her death. Switching to strangulation obviated the need for him to exsanguinate the victim. The UnSub would've considered strangulation to be the quicker cleaner death. I don't think he's devolving at all. He appears to be getting more clinical over time."

"But what about the switch from ligature to manual?" Prentiss asked. "Wouldn't a cord be more reliable than one's bare hands?"

"It would," Reid agreed. "But a cord has certain disadvantages compared to one's bare hands. A cord would leave more distinct ligature marks. As you can see from the photos, the UnSub was able to obscure his finger marks on the necks of the victims by applying pressure to every part of the throat area. Now, imagine if he had attempted to do the same with a cord. The contact area between neck and cord is much smaller than that between neck and hand, so he'd have needed to apply the cord over and over again to obscure the ligature marks. Or rather, to create one large artifactual ligature mark that masks all the actual small ligature marks that compose it. The forest over the trees. I think that the UnSub is actually evolving, learning as he goes and becoming a better killer."

"Someone remind me why we didn't have Reid do the case briefings earlier?" Rossi asked the room.

"Because I deluded myself into thinking that I wanted to do them," Garcia replied. "Then, I remembered the crime scene photos that JJ always carried around in her folders," she shuddered. "Let me tell you guys, sitting in a dark little room staring at crime scene photos is not the same as looking at them on a projector in here. Am I right, Reid?"

"Garcia's right," Reid nodded. "But they don't really bother me," he added at a look from Hotch.

"Normal limits," Prentiss whispered to Morgan.

"Alright," Hotch pushed his chair away from the table. "Let's stop here for now. Morgan and Prentiss, you two canvass the area of the last two murders, the ones from this past Saturday and the previous Tuesday. Try to extract a description of the UnSub from the street people in the area - homeless people, prostitutes, muggers, drug dealers, whoever loiters in the vicinity of the crime scenes. Go back to earlier cases, but only if you don't get anything from the latest ones. Witness reports are notoriously unreliable, and even more so after time has passed. Garcia, analyze the CCTV footage from all the crime scenes. Rossi and Reid..." he stopped abruptly.

"Let me guess," Rossi said sarcastically. "The morgue?"

"Dave and I will visit the morgue," Hotch said. "Reid can stay at the office and...think about the case in the same way that he thought about the previous case and got the brothers in Indiana to implicate each other."

"So they did implicate each other!" Garcia's face lit up in a huge smile. "I was afraid to ask when I first saw you this morning, just in case everything had gone to Hell again."

"It's the glare," Rossi explained to Hotch. "I'd tone it down at the morgue if I were you. You don't want to scare the medical examiner or the bodies."

Hotch smirked slightly, responding to the gentle ribbing in a dignified manner. He waited for everyone else to exit the Round Table Room before speaking to Reid.

"Good work, Reid," Hotch said. "Call me if you solve the case while I'm at the morgue," he exited the room with a small wave.

"Thanks," Reid said to himself in the deserted room.

He gathered up the papers spread out on the table and stuffed them into their original folders. He looked around the room before heading back to JJ's office, which was now his office. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to leave the BAU, to walk out of the bullpen and into the elevator, never to return again, as JJ had done, and Elle before her. He shook his head to clear away the thought, leaving only JJ behind. He hummed tunelessly as he walked down the corridor, thinking about JJ.

In his mind, he wandered through his memory banks, picking and choosing scenes from his interactions with JJ, replaying the scenes without examining them, as he had done for Morgan and Hotch. The scenes played themselves smoothly, of their own volition, but he never finished one scene before jumping to another. None of the scenes matched what he was looking for. The scenes played themselves out of sequence, without regard for the chronological record. As he himself had once said, during the case with the comatose serial killer who had forgotten all his crimes after he had awakened, people's emotional lives were not linear. A single event could not bring peace after years of grief, and more often than not, a person would never find the closure that he sought.

Reid hoped that Mr. Corbett had found closure after his daughter's death. For himself, there was no closure. Among all the scenes that played themselves in his mind, he found not a single moment that he could hold onto to let go of her for good. For him, there was neither "splendor in the grass" or "glory in the flower", and so, he continued to grieve.

* * *

Note: The episode referred to in the last paragraphs is "Tabula Rasa", Season 3, Episode 19. There was a Wordsworth quote at the end of it.

So, which part of this chapter was creepiest? Reid paying the prostitute? Reid obsessing over JJ with the prostitute? Reid killing the prostitute? Reid incorporating his crime into the case? Pick any or all.

Next up: Reid obsesses over hair color.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"In the field of observation, chance favors the prepared mind."

Louis Pasteur was right. Reid concurred with his fellow scientist. Killing the strawberry blonde prostitute had been the first step towards solving the case.

Reid laid out ten photos of dead prostitutes on his desk. He arranged them in order of their deaths. Brunette, blonde, brunette, blonde, brunette, blonde, brunette, blonde, brunette, blonde.

Frowning, he gathered up the glossy papers and started over. He separated the blondes and brunettes into two piles. He arranged the brunettes in order of their deaths, their photos taking up all the space from one end of the desk to the other. Beneath them, he arranged the blondes in order, their photos traversing the strip of desk closest to where he sat in his chair. He moved the last brunette, the ninth victim, along with the last blonde, the tenth victim, a few inches to the right, where the photos ran up against the blinds that shut everyone out from the secrets within his office.

Laid out before him, the crime scene photos convinced Reid that the next victim would be neither blonde or brunette. The next victim would be a redhead. The reasoning was extraordinarily straightforward.

Human hair color was determined by two types of the dark pigment melanin - eumelanin and pheomelanin. Eumelanin itself came in two types - brown and black - determining whether a person had brown or black hair, respectively. Black hair, like that of Aaron Hotchner, David Rossi, Derek Morgan, and Emily Prentiss, was irrelevant to the case. Brown hair, like that of Spencer Reid, and blonde hair, like that of Jennifer Jareau, were integral. Reid was not sure how Penelope Garcia fit into the inequality, because he was not sure about her natural hair color. Neither the peroxide blonde of yesteryear or the henna orange of present times was convincing as a natural human hair color.

Among the blondes and brunettes, people with a lot of brown eumelanin had dark brown hair, people with a little brown eumelanin had light blonde hair, and there was a continuous spectrum of brown and blonde shades between the two extremes. Pheomelanin entered the equation as the pigment responsible for red hair. Regardless of hair color, all humans produced pheomelanin. The only factor that varied was the amount.

Red hair, the shade normally and sometimes derogatorily referred to as ginger, had high levels of pheomelanin and low levels of brown eumelanin. Strawberry blonde hair had moderate levels of pheomelanin and low levels of brown eumelanin. On the brown side of the spectrum, the equivalent of strawberry blonde was chestnut brown, a shade with moderate levels of pheomelanin and high levels of brown eumelanin. That was the hair color of the ninth victim, the one whose hair color reflected that of the tenth victim, whom Reid had killed, not because he had planned to kill her, but because by chance, she had been there when his mind had been prepared.

Killing the strawberry blonde prostitute had been the first step towards solving the case, because the act had essentially cornered the UnSub. The first victim, a brunette, had medium brown hair. The second victim, a blonde, had medium blonde hair. They had been textbook examples of blonde and brunette. From there, the UnSub had chosen victims with successively increasing amounts of pheomelanin in their hair. None of the victims had counted as redheads, because the pheomelanin occurred in only a small proportion of their hair follicles, the ones that created attractive reddish highlights in their blonde or brown hair. Having progressed from medium brown to chestnut brown and from medium blonde to strawberry blonde, the UnSub had reached the red hair boundary from both sides of the spectrum. He had run out of blondes and brunettes to kill. If he wished to maintain the integrity of his crimes, then he would have to turn his attention to redheads. As everyone knew, red hair was the rarest human hair color, so prostitutes with red hair constituted the smallest pool of potential victims. Among the pimps of DC, there was one, Ginger Ale, who specialized in prostitutes with naturally red hair.

* * *

"Ginger Ale?" Rossi narrowed his eyes, one more than the other, until his eyes appeared even more uneven than usual. "Let me get this straight, Reid. You're suggesting that we contact this pimp, Ginger Ale, to warn him about the UnSub, so he can protect his redheaded prostitutes by taking them off the streets."

"Yes," Reid nodded eagerly.

Rossi glanced sideways at Hotch, who stood like an Easter Island statue in the open doorway of Rossi's office.

"Hotch?" Reid turned to his boss.

"It's not a bad idea," Hotch considered, tapping his finger against his chin as he assumed the pimp's perspective. "For a pimp, each and every prostitute is a valuable commodity. It takes time for him to build a stable of prostitutes, and it takes effort for him to maintain them. A prostitute who becomes dissatisfied with her pimp can switch to a different pimp, so pimps are constantly at risk of losing their prostitutes to one another."

"Right," Reid said. "I had Garcia dig up some background information on Ginger Ale. His real name is Ryan Jonas. He's 27 years old. He became a pimp after he lost his job as a security guard at a hotel. He's only been operating in the sex industry for a year, so he's still considered a wannabe in the pimp hierarchy. Under the threat of an UnSub specifically targeting redheads, he might be willing to take his prostitutes off the streets, even if it means losing money for awhile. He needs to protect his assets. If the UnSub kills several of his prostitutes, then the remainder will switch pimps to distance themselves from the group. They may even move out of the DC area altogether. His whole enterprise would come crashing down. He can't take that risk."

"Why not just arrest the prostitutes directly?" Rossi asked. "Why not warn them directly? Why go to the trouble of warning the pimp?"

"Because it'll take time for local law enforcement to track down and arrest the prostitutes," Hotch replied. "And I doubt that the prostitutes would heed our warnings. However, they may heed the warnings of their pimp. He'd be losing money by taking them off the streets, so warnings, coming from him, would carry greater weight and would alert them to the severity of the situation. As for the pimp, we can't arrest him. As soon as the pimp is arrested, the prostitutes will switch to different pimps, spreading themselves out all over the DC area and making our investigation that much harder."

"It's better to keep the majority of the potential victims within one specific red light district than to spread them out among all of the areas," Reid explained. "The Metropolitan Police Department can increase patrols within a limited area. We can focus in on one area as well. If the prostitutes refuse to stop work, then at least we can use the victimology to tail the prostitutes and hunt down the UnSub that way. If they do stop work, then we can lure the UnSub out of hiding, as he becomes more and more desperate to find an appropriate victim. I think we should approach the pimp with our proposal as soon as possible."

"As soon as we find him," Rossi pondered the specifics of tracking down a pimp. "Pimps tend to stay away from law enforcement, but we may be able to get a message to him through his bottom girl, his secretary of sorts."

"It'll have to be discrete," Reid said. "If the information about the UnSub leaks out, then the prostitutes will disperse. We need to keep them in one place to have a chance at catching the UnSub. We've got very few leads in this case, not even enough to build a barebones profile at this point."

"I'll speak to Morgan when he and Prentiss get back from canvassing the crime scenes," Hotch decided. "He's got undercover experience from his days in the Chicago police force. He understands all the practical aspects of dealing with common criminals. Dave, why don't you work with Morgan on the negotiation with the pimp?"

"Good thinking," Rossi agreed. "I've got personal experience with organized crime, even if we're only dealing with a wannabe pimp."

"What should I do?" Reid asked expectantly. "Should I work on the negotiation as well?"

"No, no, no," Hotch shook his head emphatically. "No way, not a chance. You're going to continue doing what you've been doing in your office - making observations that everyone else has missed, coming up with valuable insights for the rest of us. Bring them to me or to Dave, if I'm not around. I don't want you out on the streets, especially not around pimps or any other agents of organized crime."

"Definitely not," Rossi snickered. "Imagine what they'd do to him if they got their hands on him..."

"Sorry, Reid," Hotch apologized. "We need your brain on this case and all future cases, so we can't risk putting the rest of you into danger."

"You're much too precious, Reid. You're our jiggling mass of gray matter," Rossi chuckled and smiled, almost fondly, at Reid.

Reid nodded without saying a word. With a blank neutral expression on his face, he conveyed acceptance and understanding. It was convincing. Hotch adjourned the discussion to attend an unwelcome meeting with Section Chief Erin Strauss. Reid followed him out of Rossi's office and walked briskly down the corridor to his own office, where he calmly closed and locked the door.

In his office, with the door locked and the blinds closed, he flung a folder of crime scene photos at the opposite wall. The photos exploded out of the folder, flying all over the room before drifting to the floor. Reid folded his arms across his chest. He stared at the dead prostitutes in the photos, their hair, being dead even in life, the only thing about them that remained the same after their deaths. He inhaled as deeply and slowly as possible. He exhaled just as slowly. No small white clouds leaped out of his lungs to frolick in the stillness. The breathing didn't help. Even after multiple attempts to calm himself and clear his head, Reid was still so angry that he could have killed someone.

* * *

On Monday evening, after work, Reid visited the red light district of the redheaded prostitutes, looking for the one who fit the victimology. In the few hours since the meeting with Hotch and Rossi, he had refined his analysis of hair pigmentation. The UnSub had run out of blondes and brunettes to kill, so he would have to kill redheads just within the red hair boundary on both the blonde and brunette sides of the spectrum. The last victim had been a blonde, so the next victim would be a redhead at the boundary of redhead and brunette. Reid needed to find a prostitute with high levels of pheomelanin and high levels of brown eumelanin. The shade he was looking for, as he ambled down the sidewalk in the misty drizzle, was auburn.

"How's it going?" a prostitute approached him from a sheltered spot in front of a boarded-up glass door.

"No, thanks," Reid muttered as he walked past her.

She was a blonde, but she didn't look like JJ at all. He didn't find her particularly attractive, but he supposed that some men would.

"Whatever," the prostitute tossed her hair as she strutted back to her spot.

Reid continued down the street, ignoring every prostitute who approached him, eventually learning to keep his eyes trained forwards to prevent them from approaching him at all. None of them fit the victimology. He passed by a couple of redheads. One had vivid orange curls, which looked natural. The other had deep burgundy waves, which looked fake. If the burgundy color had been a little less red and a little more brown, then it could have passed as auburn, but it would still have come out of a bottle, and that would have eliminated it from the UnSub's consideration.

At 9 PM, after two hours of wandering the streets, Reid was hungry. He hadn't eaten anything since lunch, which had consisted of ham-and-cheese sandwiches wolfed down during an intense examination of color swatches. Lunch had taken place before the meeting with Hotch and Rossi. Reid was glad that he had eaten lunch earlier than usual, inspite of the fact that the sustenance had worn off earlier as well. He doubted that he could have eaten lunch after the meeting. Ham and cheese did not mix well with bubbles of boiling rage.

Reid stopped when the sidewalk reached a deadend. Before him was a wide gravel path, and beyond the gravel was a set of railroad tracks. The tracks were fenced off on the far side, but they were perfectly accessible on the near side. Reid turned right onto the gravel path, kicking up a few small stones as he walked over the rough ground parallel to the tracks. He fumbled for a candy bar in his messenger bag. He paused, next to the windowless concrete wall of a dilapidated warehouse, to tear open the candy wrapper. Before he could rip it open, he spotted her - a pale sliver of leg, a paler curve of neck, a flyaway wisp of reddish hair poking out from under a woolly winter hat.

Reid looked again. She was the one who fit the victimology. He approached her.

"Hi," Reid wiggled his fingers in the direction of the prostitute.

"Not working tonight," the prostitute dismissed him, deftly lighting a cigarette with one hand as she waved him off with the other.

"Six minutes," Reid pointed at the cigarette.

"What?" the prostitute took a puff.

"Six minutes," Reid repeated. "It's just something I used to say to my mom to get her to quit smoking. A cigarette takes six minutes off your life, so every time she'd light one, I'd say, 'It's six minutes less that I get to spend with you.'"

"Cute," the prostitute exhaled a puff of smoke. "Still not working tonight."

"Not even for a hundred dollars an hour?" Reid coaxed the prostitute.

"No," the prostitute rejected his offer.

"Well..." Reid considered a different tactic. "Can you take your hat off for a minute?" he gestured at her head. "You've got really pretty hair. It's auburn, isn't it? It's a shame for you to hide it under that ugly winter hat."

"No, I'm not taking off my hat," the prostitute rolled her eyes, without a hint of JJ in her expression. "I told you, I'm not working tonight, so leave me alone, OK?"

"Why aren't you working tonight?" Reid asked. "Don't you want to make a hundred dollars an hour? That's twice as much as you'd normally make. I'll give you twenty dollars if you take your hat off. That's one second of work at a prorated $72,000 per hour. Here," he reached into his wallet, grabbed one of the twenties that the other prostitute had given back to him, and held it out towards her hand.

"I said no!" the prostitute pulled her hand away from the money. "What the Hell is wrong with you? Why don't you fuck off?"

"I'll leave you alone if you take your hat off," Reid persisted. "Just take your hat off for one second. That's all I'm asking."

"Fine!" the prostitute ripped her hat off, utterly exasperated by his obsessive tenacity. "Happy?" she shook her hair out until some of the strands fell over her face. "Fetish freak," she started to put her hat back on.

"You should grow your hair out," Reid grabbed a fistful of hair before she could put her hat back on. "You look nice this way, but you could be a real beauty if you had long wavy auburn hair," he peered closely at the strands. "It's natural, right? Your color? It didn't come out of a bottle?" he examined the strands under the beam of a Maglite. "It goes really well with your hazel eyes," he let go and stepped back.

"Yeah, it's natural," the prostitute stared up at him, more annoyed than ever, now that he had touched her hair. "Look, I took my hat off. I let you touch my hair, even though you totally freak me out. I'm not even going to take your money. Would you just leave me alone already?"

"Oh, I freak you out? Is that a problem?" Reid stepped forward, grabbed the prostitute by the shoulders, and shoved her against the wall of the building. "You should've taken the money when I offered it," he snatched the cigarette out of her fingers, dropped it onto the gravel, and ground it out under his shoe. "Who are you to reject a hundred dollars an hour? You're a filthy disgusting whore. You make me sick."

"Let go of me!" the prostitute struggled to escape his grasp, twisting her body away from him, trying to get her feet into position to kick him in the shins.

"I wouldn't," Reid drew his revolver and pressed the barrel against her upper abdomen, where her diaphragm directed the heaving of her breasts through her flimsy lacy top.

The prostitute gasped at the gun, staring, wide-eyed, as she realized the severity of the situation. She gazed into Reid's eyes, his eyes the same color as her eyes, both pairs of hazel eyes a deep reddish brown away from the glare of the streetlamps.

"Please..." the prostitute murmured. "Please don't kill me," she whimpered, cringing every time she breathed as her abdomen contacted the barrel of the gun.

"I didn't come here to kill you," Reid lifted the gun away from her body. "I came here to warn you," he holstered the weapon.

"Warn me? What are you talking about?" the prostitute sniffled.

"I came here to warn you about the UnSub," Reid wiped away a tear from the inner corner of her right eye, from the corner opposite the one where he had brushed away the eyelash of the other prostitute.

"UnSub?" the prostitute glanced both ways, hoping to distract him with conversation as she plotted her escape.

"The UnSub," Reid said. "The unknown subject...That's what we call criminal perpetrators in the FBI. I've been working on a case that involves an UnSub who kills prostitutes. He kills them according to their hair colors. Just today, I had a big breakthrough on the case. I won't bore you with the details. You wouldn't be interested in the details, but the breakthrough told me that the UnSub would be targeting a prostitute with auburn hair. That's why I came all the way down here to warn you about him."

"You're...You're in the FBI?" the prostitute asked cautiously, as if she wanted to trust the man who had threatened to shoot her.

"Yes, I'm an FBI agent," Reid nodded. "I'm a profiler. I figure out how criminals think. I catch them according to how they think. That's why I killed the previous prostitute, the tenth victim. I figured that the UnSub would want to...would have to kill a prostitute with strawberry blonde hair after he killed the prostitute with chestnut brown hair. It just so happened that she looked exactly like JJ. Normally, I would never hurt JJ or anyone who reminded me of her, but this time, for the case, you know..." he trailed off, waiting for the prostitute to give him her approval.

"Who's JJ?" the prostitute focused in upon the name of the woman that Reid would never hurt.

"Someone who doesn't look like you," Reid replied. "The other prostitute, the one who looked like JJ, told me that JJ wasn't right for me, that I'd find someone better, that there were plenty of fish in the sea. Do you think it's true? What she told me?"

"Yeah," the prostitute nodded hastily. "It's totally true. She was right. There are plenty of other..."

"But these others..." Reid cut her off. "You, the other prostitute...They're just not..." he cut himself off, sighing in frustration.

"Do you have a picture of her?" the prostitute asked. "Do you have a picture of JJ? If you show me a picture of her, then I can help you find someone who looks like her. Maybe you just haven't found the right one who looks like her. I'm not the one, but I know a lot of people around here. I've got a lot of friends. I bet one of them looks like JJ. If you show me a picture, then I can..."

"I don't carry around pictures of JJ," Reid interrupted her. "That would be too risky. What if JJ finds out that I carry around pictures of her? Wouldn't that creep her out? I don't want to creep her out. JJ gets easily creeped out. Did you know that she even gets creeped out by poetry? I read her a poem once, a ballad. You can find it if you type 'death' into a search engine. It was a conversation between Death and a Lady. I read the Death parts, because the UnSub only wrote the Death parts onto the mirror. The Lady never answered back. 'My name is Death, have you not heard of me?' And a different stanza on the plane. Everyone thought I was crazy to know it, but that was back when they still liked me, so it was OK for them to make fun of me. 'Take leave of all your carnal vain delight, I'm come to summon you away this night!' Eventually, I figured out that JJ found the poems creepy, so I stopped reading them and agreed with her. I said they were creepy too, even though I thought they were pretty cool," he smiled at the memory.

The prostitute smiled back, a tiny fake close-mouthed smile that did nothing to light up her face. Reid stepped back a few inches, giving her the few inches of freedom that she needed to get her feet into position.

"Tell me about your pimp," Reid changed the subject. "Ginger Ale, right? Ryan Jonas? I know, because of your hair. Tell me about him."

"What do you want to know?" the prostitute glanced to her left and his right, calculating the amount of distance that she could cover in her high heels after she kicked him in the shins and kneed him in the crotch.

"How many hookers does he have?" Reid asked.

"Um...Gimme a second to count them," she counted on her fingers as she muttered names under her breath. "...Sheila, Alex, Tonya, Michelle, Felicia..." she double-checked the total. "I think...Eight or nine?"

"And who's the reddest of you all?" Reid reached forward to twirl a strand of her hair around his index finger.

"Definitely Felicia," the prostitute answered. "She's got bright orange hair. She's a real ginger, and it's all natural too."

"Of course, all natural, just like your clients demand," Reid said. "People have a lot of different fetishes. Hair color is one of the most common. Tell me more about Felicia. Does she work this area? Does her hair have any blonde highlights in it? I think that's what the UnSub is looking for next, after auburn. Chestnut is like brown with red highlights, while auburn is like red with brown highlights. Strawberry is like blonde with red highlights, so it would make sense if he were looking for red with blonde highlights next. That would be called ginger, high pheomelanin and low eumelanin. I guess we could call it titian to make it sound more romantic."

"Yeah, I guess," the prostitute agreed. "Titian...That does sound a lot better than ginger."

"Your pimp, Ginger Ale," Reid returned to his original train of thought. "Is he dangerous?"

"Not really," the prostitute replied. "He's better than most. He's pretty nice, as long as he gets his money on time."

"So he doesn't do anything to keep you in line?" Reid inquired.

"No, he never lays a finger on us," the prostitute shook her head. "That's why I switched to him from my other guy. That other guy used to get drunk and push us all around. And he didn't give us any perks either."

"Perks?" Reid inquired further. "What kind of perks? Like drugs?"

"Yeah, whatever kind we want," the prostitute answered. "Really good quality too, but I don't do any of the hard stuff."

"Is your pimp also a drug dealer?" Reid continued. "Drug dealers can be quite dangerous. I know. It's good that you're getting drugs from your pimp. You don't want to get involved with drug dealers. They're a lot more dangerous than pimps. Am I right? Are pimps more dangerous, or are drug dealers more dangerous?"

"Definitely drug dealers," the prostitute said. "Pimps aren't that dangerous at all. My guy only runs a small operation."

"What would he do if he met me?" Reid asked intently, searching her eyes for an answer that would convince him that his boss had been right to hold him back.

"Well, you're an FBI agent, so he'd probably run away," the prostitute gave the wrong answer.

"Yeah," Reid considered for a moment, imagining a pimp, dressed in a classic pimp outfit with a pimp cane that looked like Herbert, running away from him.

He laughed until he snorted. He reached for his credentials.

"FBI!" he flashed his credentials at the prostitute, who, having been distracted by the conversation, forgot her fear and laughed along with him.

"You're funny," she laughed again, her laugh much more genuine than her earlier smile.

"I'm funny? You think I'm funny?" Reid slapped her in the face, grabbed her shoulder-length auburn hair, and pulled downwards until her grimace was directed at the cloudy night sky.

As with the other prostitute, he slammed her head against the wall, careful not to slam it so hard that she would suffer a tonic-clonic seizure. He wrapped one hand around her neck while pulling her hair downwards with the other.

"You know who else thinks I'm funny?" Reid whispered softly, as if sharing sensitive gossip about a friend or colleague. "Everyone at work thinks I'm funny. One of them...No, two of them...refer to me as a 'jiggling mass of gray matter'. They say this to my face. So far, two of them have said it, but I bet that the rest of them think it every time they see me or hear me or speak to me or talk about me behind my back. That's what they call me behind my back."

"Please..." the prostitute begged through a slightly constricted throat. "Please let me go...I'll do anything you want!"

"And then there's my boss," Reid sighed bitterly. "My boss doesn't use that term for me. He's way too professional. He thinks of me differently. To him, there's my brain, and there's the rest of me. The rest of me needs to be protected, kept safe at all times, so my brain can do his job for him. I don't know what his own brain is for! All I know is I'm not supposed to leave the office or the police station or the SUV. Forget about canvassing the streets or negotiating with pimps or going on a raid every once in awhile. I have to stay behind and think. I'm tired of thinking. I want to do something! Why can't someone else think for a change? Are they that stupid? Maybe they are. Can you believe that no one who looked at the crime scene photos figured out the pattern of hair pigmentation? What were they all staring at all this time? Don't they have eyes? Are they all colorblind? They're the ones who should stay behind. I'm the one who should be out in the field. There could be crucial evidence in the field that all these blind people would miss. You know what's wrong with them? Their minds are not prepared! They look with their eyes, but not with their brains! The information from the visual channel doesn't get processed through the anterior regions of the cerebral cortex. It goes through the visual cortex at the back of the brain. It needs to go through the front of the brain. That's the part that we use to think. In that part, anything is possible. Anything goes! You can let yourself think whatever you want. Whatever happens, you can think about it however you want. Up there, you can create your very own reality. I think it's pretty cool! What about you? What do you think?"

"I think it's cool too," the prostitute gulped against his hand.

"JJ would think that it was creepy," Reid said. "Why does she get creeped out so easily? Afraid of the woods, afraid of the mind...It doesn't make sense. I'm only afraid of the dark, but I've been working on it. I used to be afraid of women too, especially after my failed date with JJ, but I got over it. Spending time with women like you has helped me get over it even more. I find that I have a special rapport with prostitutes. I find that I can talk about things with you that I would never talk about with anyone else, not even JJ, especially not JJ. You've really helped me tonight. You're going to help me some more. After they find you, after I lay you out on the ground with your hair fanned out beneath your head, your pimp is going to have to take all his other hookers off the streets. After he loses you, he won't take the risk of losing another one. Morgan and Rossi won't even have to pressure him. There won't be any negotiating to speak of! All the other hookers will be safe. The UnSub will prowl the streets every night, getting more and more desperate as he looks for the woman with the titian hair, but he won't find her before we find him. We're going to catch him and make him pay for those nine women that he killed."

"Please don't kill me," the prostitute cried, her tears soaking through his woven gloves.

"I'm sorry," Reid shook his head. "Here, let me give you a hug first," he pulled her towards him, keeping one hand wrapped around her neck as he swayed with her in his arms. "See? We're cuddling, and you're pretty. That's what women like. Cuddling, and men telling them that they're pretty. You're pretty," he wrapped both hands around her neck and pressed his fingers into her firm resisting flesh.

He held on, applying pressure evenly over the whole surface of the neck as she choked and spit up from her mouth. He watched her face contort itself into an ugly bug-eyed fish-mouthed grimace of pain. She tried to kick him, but he side-stepped her feeble blows. When she flicked on her cigarette lighter to burn him, he took one hand off her throat and used it to strike her, hard and repeatedly, in the abdomen until she was subdued. She gasped silently, threatening to double over until he wrapped both hands over her throat to steady her against the wall. She gasped until she lost consciousness. He held on, hearing a small pop as the bone at the front of her throat, the hyoid bone that was the only unarticulated bone in the human body, broke away from its supporting muscles. He realized that he had pressed too hard, so he let go. She crumpled to the ground in a small unresisting heap. He lifted her up, bodily, into his arms. She was petite and skinny, so she was light, even lighter than the frail old man of his dreams. He walked a few steps towards the railroad tracks and laid her gently upon the gravel path. He placed her hands, left over right, on top of her bruised abdomen. He probed her neck, tracing the ligature marks, and reached behind her head to lift out her hair. In the darkness, he couldn't tell exactly what color her hair was, so he shone his Maglite to make sure that it was still auburn. It was. He fanned it out beneath her head. He backed away a few steps, comparing her position on the ground with the position in the crime scene photos. Satisfied, he turned away, just as the lights of an Amtrak train approached from the distance. On the way back to the street, he stopped briefly in front of the warehouse to pick up the candy bar that he had dropped. He tore open the wrapper and bit into the chocolate caramel biscuit. He finished the two biscuit fingers before he headed towards the Metro station. He was tired, but no longer hungry or angry.

Tonight, Reid would sleep well, even without the aid of Tylenol. There would be no waking up a mere half hour after he had fallen asleep. He would sleep through the night, so he could be refreshed and ready to present the profile in the morning.

The profile was clear. The first prostitute, the blonde, had been right and wrong. As the prostitute had said, there were plenty of fish in the sea, but as the UnSub knew, he did not want any of them. He wanted her, and he would always hold onto her, no matter how many colorful lures baited him to let go of her.

Once again, Reid savored the symphony behind his eyes. He understood the UnSub, through the silent mouthed words of a lady who had struggled in death.

"JJ...JJ," the second prostitute, the redhead, had mouthed. "I'm JJ...I'm her...It's me, JJ..."

Reid couldn't wait to get home, go to sleep, wake up, and go to work. Now that he understood the UnSub, he couldn't wait to catch him and make him pay for the eleven women that he had killed. He couldn't wait for all this to happen, even as he empathized with the UnSub. To the UnSub, each crime had been an act of love unrequited, and the stressor behind all the crimes had been the unbearable pain of her departure.

* * *

I'm going to go dye my hair blue now. BRB.

Next up: the profile, hunting, and fishing.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

On Tuesday morning, after a night of naturally restful slumber, Reid woke up feeling nauseous. The nausea was not caused by food poisoning or the stomach flu. It could not have been prevented by a food taster. It was the nausea of hunger. The only treatment was eating. The only flaw with the treatment was the impossibility of eating while experiencing debilitating nausea.

Reid stumbled out of bed in a stomach-growling stomach-turning daze. He scurried into the bathroom and threw up nothing into the sink. He regretted going to bed without eating anything the night before. The only thing he had eaten since lunch yesterday had been a couple of Twix bars on the way home from work. He berated himself for eating Twix bars in place of dinner. Eating candy for meals was a bad habit of his. It was an unhealthy habit that kept him skinny, weak, and vulnerable to predators. He was the runtish antelope that the lions targeted and chased down. In the wild, he was the ideal prey. In civilization, he was protected from harm by being locked up at the zoo. Clearly, the zookeepers had neglected their duties if they had allowed their charge to eat candy for dinner. Why had they not supplied him with ready-to-eat food-taster-certified meals pre-planned and pre-cooked weeks in advance? They should have supervised his every bite and swallow as well, making sure that he consumed all the vitamins and minerals that kept his coat shiny, his ears perky, and his tail frisky, while his brain sparkled with effervescent rainbow-hued bubbles of brilliance. The zookeepers had performed none of their duties, and here was the result - a scruffy bedraggled animal throwing up nothing into the sink, then dressing up in the previous day's clothes for another round of tedium in the ungulate exhibit. No one who visited the zoo cared about the ungulates. It was the lions that they came to see.

At 6 AM, Reid headed off to work with hair unbrushed, face unshaven, shirt untucked. He looked like he had spent the whole night at the office. He decided to pretend that he had spent the whole night at the office. The only things that gave him away were his eyes, which were fresh, or as fresh as they ever looked, and his brain, which was refreshed and ready to conjure up romantic fairy tales about the UnSub and the object of his affection.

At work, on an unseasonably warm morning two days before Thanksgiving, it took Reid three hours to get the call about the eleventh victim. As expected, her hair was auburn, and she was one of Ginger Ale's redheaded prostitutes. Reid was sure that the loss of one of the herd would be enough to convince the pimp to take the others off the streets, but he was not sure that he wanted that to happen. The idea of prostitutes roaming the streets gave him a sense of security, the same feeling that it must have given the pimp, every morning or every night before he went to sleep, to know that his herd raked in the dollars while he lazed in bed. In a way, the herd was more like a pride than a herd. A herd of ungulates had to be fed and raised for years before the ungulates could be slaughtered, sold, and profited from. A pride of lionesses dragged in the kill on a daily basis, and unlike the ungulates, the lionesses, being of the same species as the lion, could cuddle up with the lion and be told how pretty they were at sunset on the savanna.

"The UnSub is a fisher-hunter," Reid opened the profile.

"A fisher-hunter," Morgan stared blankly.

"Fishing-hunting is a type of criminal behavior in which the UnSub consciously fishes in a non-specific manner while subconsciously hunting for a specific prey," Reid explained. "In this case, the UnSub initiated his crime spree by fishing amongst blonde and brunette prostitutes who did not resemble his prey. As he continued his crimes, he chose victims who increasingly resembled his prey, but he was still fishing all the way through the tenth victim, because none of the victims could be counted as redheads. It was only with the latest victim, the eleventh victim and the first redhead, that he consciously switched from fishing behavior to hunting behavior. The whole series of crimes is like the predator-prey simulation played out over weeks instead of minutes."

"Not the predator-prey simulation again," Morgan rubbed his hand over his bald head.

"Is this another of Gideon's unpublished theories?" Prentiss asked. "I've never heard of this fishing-hunting behavior."

"Not Gideon's theory," Reid replied. "My theory."

"Let's assume, for the moment, that your theory is accurate," Rossi said. "The fishing behavior is the UnSub killing blondes and brunettes, and the hunting behavior is the UnSub killing redheads. The latest victim was a redhead, so are we to assume that the UnSub has reached the end of his crime spree? Was the latest victim the specific prey that he has been subconsciously hunting all along?"

"No, I don't think so," Reid replied. "The latest victim had auburn hair, red hair at the boundary with brown hair. The UnSub has been targeting victims from both the blonde and brunette sides of the hair color spectrum, so his next victim will have red hair at the boundary with blonde hair. I believe that the UnSub is looking for a prostitute with naturally red hair of this particular shade," he projected a photo of bright orange hair onto the screen, clicking to enlarge the photo until the hair follicles filled the entire screen.

"And we know this, because..." Prentiss raised her eyebrows at the image.

"The pattern goes brunette, blonde, brunette, blonde," Reid said. "It saves blonde for last. Does that sound like a normal pattern?"

"It would normally go blonde, brunette, blonde, brunette," Garcia spoke up.

"I agree," Hotch nodded. "Our society places blondes above brunettes. It's a fact, whether we care to admit it or not."

"Men prefer blondes," Rossi chuckled.

"Right," Reid continued. "The evolution of blonde hair, along with fair skin and light eyes, is usually attributed to the necessities of vitamin D synthesis at high latitudes, but some anthropologists believe that blondism arose due to sexual selection during the last ice age, when the deteriorating climate and resultant scarcity of food forced men onto reckless hunting trips during which many of them were killed, leading to a high female-to-male ratio in the breeding population. In the competition for mates, fair-haired light-eyed women stood out from their dark-haired dark-eyed rivals, so blondism became prevalent in certain areas of Northern and Eastern Europe over a short time period."

"Thanks, Prof," Morgan muttered under his breath.

Reid nodded at Morgan, happy to see that Morgan found blondism worthy of sarcastic muttering in place of blank staring. More of the quota must have drained away. Perhaps the quota was draining away at an accelerated pace, now that Reid spent most of his time in his office with the door locked and the blinds closed. He no longer sat at his desk in the bullpen. It was freeing not to wear headphones all the time.

"To return to the profile," Hotch changed the subject. "Has the UnSub zeroed in on his specific prey with the next victim? Is he planning to end his crime spree after he kills the twelfth victim?"

"Yes, I believe that the twelfth victim will be the final victim of his organized crime spree," Reid said.

"You mean there's more to come afterwards?" Morgan asked. "Is he going to start a disorganized crime spree?"

"Possibly," Reid replied. "Or he may stop killing altogether, and we may never hear of him again."

"I don't understand," Prentiss frowned. "What is the UnSub's motive for the murders? What is the significance of red hair of that particular shade?" she pointed the chewed-up tip of her pen at the projector screen.

"The UnSub must have known a woman with ginger hair," Morgan suggested. "This woman must have meant something to him. She's the stressor for the crime spree."

"Morgan's right," Reid agreed. "The next victim is likely a substitute for the object of his affection. The stressor for the crime spree was her departure from his life."

"And the evidence for this is..." Prentiss tapped her pen against the edge of the table.

"The behavior itself. The fishing-hunting behavior indicates a particular motive," Reid explained. "It indicates an UnSub who has lost something and is trying to deal with the loss by replacing the something with a multitude of dissimilar things. This is the conscious fishing behavior. The UnSub lost the redhead who was the object of his affection, and he tried to replace her with blondes and brunettes who were entirely unlike her. He tried to move on. He failed to move on, because a subconscious part of his mind held onto her through her hair. That's why he chose victims with redder and redder hair as his crimes progressed. In his subconscious mind, each successive victim brought him closer to her. This is the subconscious hunting behavior. The switch from blondes and brunettes to redheads indicates that the UnSub is now consciously hunting for the prey that he had in mind all along."

"What is he going to do when he finds her?" Prentiss asked. "Is he going to kill someone who reminds him of his love interest?"

"That's unclear," Reid shook his head. "It's difficult to predict what he would do in that scenario. It depends on his specific psychological state, which we have no way of knowing."

"What are the possibilities?" Hotch asked.

"If we suppose that each crime is an act of love, then the UnSub..." Reid began expounding upon the possibilities.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Morgan interrupted with a hand in the air, like a hyperactive third-grader eager to answer a question in class. "What the Hell, Reid? A murder is an act of love?"

"To the UnSub, possibly," Reid answered. "Each murder is a test of loyalty and an act of love. Think of it this way. The UnSub is trying to move on from his love interest, looking for other fish in the sea to replace the one he lost. He finds that he is unable to replace her. He doesn't really want to replace her. She is irreplaceable. He becomes annoyed with these other fish, these prostitutes who are constantly trying to lure him onto their hooks while he refuses to bite. He is both fisher and fish. Throughout the process, he remains loyal to the object of his affection. He kills the prostitutes, because they are not her. How dare they tempt him when he has eyes only for her? To the UnSub, a murder is a test of loyalty. Not killing a prostitute would be a failure on his part, but not to worry, he passes the test with flying colors every time. A murder is an act of love."

"Sick!" Garcia exclaimed as she straightened her glasses with a fluffy pen.

"If a murder is a test of loyalty and an act of love, then the UnSub has no choice but to kill the twelfth victim, the one who reminds him of, but is not actually, his love interest," Morgan concluded.

"Does his love interest love him back?" Prentiss asked.

"Probably not," Morgan answered.

"Certainly not," Reid said. "The UnSub is displaying the effects of social rejection, specifically romantic rejection..."

"Romantic rejection, one of the prime stressors for violent behavior in men," Rossi completed the thought.

"Especially in men with high rejection sensitivity," Reid continued. "People with high rejection sensitivity experience inappropriate levels of anxiety in response to social slights, no matter how minor. The condition is often associated with neuroticism, a fundamental personality trait that causes a person to internalize negative emotions, such as anxiety, anger, guilt, and grief. Such a person often displays poor interpersonal skills and poor impulse control. An UnSub with high rejection sensitivity and a neurotic personality will overanalyze all his social interactions. He will play the interactions over and over in his mind, dredging up negative emotions if there were any, conferring negative emotions where there were none, and judging himself and his social partners accordingly. For such a personality, romantic rejection, in the form of unrequited love, would be a devastating blow."

"Devastating enough to kill," Rossi added.

"Supposing that he finds and kills a twelfth victim, what then?" Hotch asked.

"After he kills the twelfth victim, the UnSub will find himself at a fork in the road," Reid said. "He can either end the crime spree, having fished and hunted to no avail, or he can go on to repeat the final crime over and over again. In that case, he would find himself trapped in a loop, which, over time, would become increasingly tedious to maintain. He may stop, give up, and fall into a state of depression, perhaps becoming depressed enough to kill himself. Or he may attempt to break free of the loop by going on a separate disorganized crime spree."

"Is there a scenario in which the UnSub doesn't kill the tweflth victim?" Rossi asked.

"There is one scenario," Reid answered immediately, then paused, hesitating.

"Which is..." Rossi prompted him.

"So far, we've only considered the possibility that the twelfth victim is a substitute for the UnSub's love interest," Reid continued. "What if the twelfth victim _is_ the UnSub's love interest?"

"The UnSub's love interest is a prostitute?" Prentiss asked.

"Why not?" Morgan turned and smirked at Prentiss. "Ever seen 'Pretty Woman'?"

"Pretty Woman, walking down the street...Pretty Woman, the kind I like to meet..." Garcia sing-songed the theme from the movie.

"What happens in this scenario?" Prentiss asked. "Does the UnSub kill his love interest?"

"It depends on the specifics of the relationship," Reid replied. "What was the exact nature of her departure from his life? Was there ever a genuine relationship, either platonic or romantic, or was the whole thing in his head? Is his love for her strong enough to overcome the negative emotions that arose from her rejection of him and that presumably caused him to kill?"

"If he does kill her, then..." Morgan waited for Reid to fill in the blanks.

"Then he loses it, whatever he has left of his mind," Reid replied. "He goes on a crime spree - disorganized, haphazard, insane."

"Tell me there's an alternative," Garcia peeked through the fingers covering her eyes. "What if he doesn't kill her?"

"Then he...heals," Reid replied. "If he finds her, but he doesn't kill her, then he will know that his love for her is strong enough to overcome all his negative emotions and aggressive impulses. It will be a moment of catharsis for him. Afterwards, he will let go of her for good. The crime spree will end, and the UnSub will find closure."

At the last words, the room fell silent. Morgan and Prentiss exchanged glances, as did Hotch and Rossi. Garcia shuddered in her chair. Reid stood in place, waiting for a response from his colleagues. He was very surprised, somewhat annoyed, and slightly angry that his colleagues had nothing to say. He had laid out the intellectual fugue and the emotional fantasia, both clear as the winter sky, but there was no response, only silence. Why was there no response? Why was there only silence? Silence was a form of social rejection, designed to make the speaker think twice before speaking again. When greeted, at the end of a long speech, with utter silence, the speaker was supposed to feel bad about himself. He was supposed to play his speech over and over in his mind, searching for the errors and omissions that had demonstrated his inadequacies, as a speaker and as a thinker. As the silence continued, he would attempt to fill it, bringing forth ideas at the fringes of relevancy and validity. The ideas, the bad ones, would instigate discussion to fill the silence, and the speaker would wonder why the audience focused upon the myriad poppable bubbles, scores among millions in the common foam, rather than the one sparkling shimmering globe that he had blown up to hover, out of harm's way, in the air over their heads.

"Moving on..." Reid broke the silence. "The concrete part of the profile..."

"Wait!" Morgan raised his hand again. "There's more to this profile?"

"Of course," Reid answered. "So far, we've broken down the psychological motives and criminal behaviors of the UnSub, but the profile hasn't actually given us any specific leads, any directions for future investigation. The concrete part of the profile..."

"Where else is there to go?" Prentiss asked, flicking her pen again, its chewed-up tip eliciting a wave of nausea within Reid's still empty stomach.

"The UnSub is a pimp," Reid blurted out the words, quickly, before anyone could interrupt him. "The UnSub is a pimp who was in love with one of his prostitutes who ditched him for another pimp."

"What?" Morgan and Prentiss spoke and stared in unison.

"Yes, Reid, do explain," Rossi joined in. "What makes you believe that the UnSub is a pimp, that the UnSub is a pimp in love with his prostitute, that the prostitute left the UnSub for another pimp...Why don't you fill us in on all the answers to all the questions, one at a time?"

"It all fits," Reid answered. "The story fits the profile. Suppose that the prostitute left the UnSub for another pimp. What is the significance of this action? A prostitute leaving one pimp for another is a business decision, similar to a corporation leaving one ad agency for another. Pimps operate according to a hierarchy, and their positions within the hierarchy affect the number of prostitutes they can recruit and maintain and therefore their business earnings. Fillmore Slim, a pimp who operated in San Francisco during the '60s and '70s, was known as "The Pope of Pimping", because he had 15 prostitutes working Fillmore Street at all times. Over his entire career, he had 8,000 to 9,000 prostitutes work for him. A wannabe, like Ginger Ale, has probably had 50 or so prostitutes work for him over his young career. When a prostitute leaves a wannabe, she not only damages his earnings, but also his position and advancement within the pimp hierarchy. A prostitute leaving one pimp for another is a form of social rejection, much like a breakup in which a woman leaves one man for another."

"Romantic rejection again," Rossi remarked. "It does make sense as a stressor for the UnSub, if the UnSub is a pimp. A pimp is essentially the center of a harem, the husband in the middle of a polygynous household. Unlike a sultan with 3,000 wives all to himself, a pimp rents out his wives to other men, and his wives are free to join a different harem without the fear of being beheaded."

"Normally, this wouldn't be a problem, but if the pimp has romantic interest in one of his prostitutes and the personality type that Reid described, then the situation could result in a crime spree targeting other prostitutes," Hotch said. "The abandonment would not only damage his position and advancement within the pimp hierarchy, but it would also bring his own masculinity into question."

"We're talking about the unrequited love of a pimp for his prostitute?" Morgan asked.

"How romantic," Garcia cradled her cheeks in her hands.

"Personally, I was thinking sick," Prentiss directed her words at Garcia.

"Both, I guess," Morgan interjected to dispel the tension. "This scenario would explain the M.O. of the earlier crimes, the ones from October, when the UnSub was still an inexperienced killer. The first three victims died of exsanguination, but only after their legs had been broken in multiple places by a blunt object. The beating/slashing combo is a very haphazard M.O., so the targeting of the legs must have had some symbolic significance that overrode the risky nature of the M.O."

"Don't you dare run away from me," Rossi suggested. "Don't you dare leave me. That's what a pimp would say to a prostitute who tried to ditch him. Pimps often employ physical violence to keep their prostitutes in line. A pimp might beat his prostitute for merely looking at another pimp. Why do you think they carry around those pimp canes?"

"I thought it was to look cool," Garcia covered her face with her hands.

"Couldn't a regular guy do that too?" Prentiss asked. "Yell the same thing at his girlfriend when she tries to break up with him? Don't you dare run away from me? Don't you dare leave me? I still don't see why the UnSub has to be a pimp. The UnSub could've substituted a prostitute for his ex in order to act out his aggressions..."

"It wouldn't be that easy to substitute a prostitute for the object of his affection," Reid cut her off.

"Huhnn-huhnn-huhnn," Morgan chuckled. "What are you saying, Reid? That you've got personal experience, and it didn't work out?"

"Unless someone has a severe mental disorder with a completely altered perception of reality, it's not that easy to substitute one person for another," Reid proclaimed in frustration. "People have all kinds of delusions, ranging from paranoid beliefs to erotomania to visions of grandeur, but it takes a seriously ill individual to mistake one person for another, especially if the person was close to him. We're talking about people at the edges of sanity. The UnSub is an organized killer with an evolving M.O. He is a perfectly sane individual. His motives are clear. His behaviors are clear. The crime spree is a way for him to cope with an unbearable loss. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that the prostitute _is_ the object of his affection. She's not a substitute! She's the _one_! I'm also convinced that he's going to kill her. He's going to kill her, because..."

"She's no longer his," Rossi cut in. "She switched pimps, so she belongs to someone else now. Their relationship, which probably never existed except in his own mind, has changed in a fundamental way. He loved her when she belonged to him. Now that she belongs to someone else, he wants to kill her."

"All this time, he's been holding onto her," Reid said. "Now, it's time for him to let go of her."

"Alright, I've heard enough about pimps and prostitutes to last a lifetime," Hotch halted the discussion. "We'll stop here for today. If the UnSub is a pimp, then we've got a concrete lead in the case. If not, then we've still got the rest of the profile. Morgan and Rossi, keep tabs on Ginger Ale to make sure that he's keeping his prostitutes off the streets. Let him know that we're progressing on the case if he gets antsy about losing money. Try to find out more about his prostitutes, especially about the ones with bright orange hair and/or the ones who switched to him from another pimp. Prentiss, work with Garcia to dig up information about all the pimps in the area, focusing on wannabes who would be most sensitive to social rejection. Reid, continue doing what you're doing. I don't know what you're doing, but it's giving us directions for investigation, so just keep doing it. Anyone with any new insights, bring them to me or to Dave, if I'm not around."

"Got it, Head Hotcho!" Garcia saluted as she gathered up her belongings to return to her hacker cave.

"Reid, can I talk to you for a minute?" Hotch waited for everyone else to exit the room before addressing Reid.

"Sure, Hotch, what is it?" Reid assumed a blank neutral expression.

"I really appreciate your work over the past few days, but for the benefit of the team, I'd advise you not to come on too strong during the case briefing or the profile," Hotch said. "We work as a team, so, although you'd like to jump ahead, you've still got to wait for everyone else to catch up. That means not skipping over the basic skeleton of the profile and not creating your own version of the story to impose upon others. The BAU is more effective when our profiles emerge from a discussion rather than a lecture."

"You're right, Hotch," Reid nodded. "Sorry about that. I guess I did come on a little too strong with the profile today. I mean, I could be wrong about the whole thing, especially the part about the pimp. I guess I just feel a more personal connection to the cases now that I'm the one screening them."

"Like you own them? Like it's all up to you to solve them?" Hotch asked.

"Yeah, exactly," Reid replied. "How did you know?"

"JJ used to have the same problem," Hotch explained. "When she first started screening cases for the BAU, she felt like each case was her baby, like she needed to personally see everything through to the end, including attending the funerals of the victims and arranging counseling for the families. But, over time, she learned to hand the cases off to the profilers after the case briefings. It's harder for you, because you're a profiler yourself. It's impossible for you to distance yourself from an ongoing case. You have to remember that you're not the only one working on the case. It's not entirely up to you to solve the case. You don't have to take personal responsiblity, even if we fail to solve a case."

"Yeah, you're right," Reid said. "I've been overreacting all week. It's like my first case all over again."

"I'd like to say that about a case again," Hotch smiled a little. "Unfortunately, my first case is fading away behind the mists of time," he paused, then started again. "One thing I will say though...Regardless of your style today, you did an exceptional job with the profile. You really took us inside the mind of the UnSub, both the intellectual and emotional aspects of his psychology and behavior. I can honestly say that this is the first time that I've truly empathized with an UnSub, truly understood his thoughts even as I understood that his actions were wrong. Good work on that, and I'll leave you to clean up the mess," he gestured at the table, the bulletin board, and the projector.

"Thanks, Hotch," Reid waved, blushing, as Hotch exited the room.

Alone in the Round Table Room, Reid basked in the praise of his boss. He basked so much in the praise that he dismissed the criticism. He dismissed the fact that the BAU was supposed to work as a team. He dismissed the fact that he was not supposed to take the case personally. How was he supposed to get inside the mind of the UnSub if he failed to take the case personally? In order to solve the case, he had to stand in the shoes of the UnSub. He had to understand the thoughts of the UnSub, so he could understand the actions of the UnSub. It was only after he understood the past actions of the UnSub that he could predict the future actions of the UnSub. That was the only way to stop the UnSub. That was the only way to solve the case.

A case was not a chess game, as Gideon had described it. A chess game took place on the intellectual plane. The player moved the pieces on the board. The sacrifice of a pawn engendered little remorse, and the victory, though pleasing, served only to reset the board for the next game.

As Reid saw it, a case was a symphony. At its heart, a symphony was a story. A story took place on all planes, intellectual and emotional. The reader fell into the story, becoming one of the pieces on the board. Each sacrifice, of pawn or queen, was accompanied by its pertinent proportion of pain, and the end, though cathartic, mutated the board to evolve a new game that was entirely unlike, or possibly still like, the old game, with old variations on old themes, that had been played out so many times before.

* * *

At 8 PM, Reid found himself rushing through the red light district of the redheaded prostitutes, searching for the woman with the titian hair. He needed to find her before she disappeared to the beck and call of her pimp. The pimp had agreed to take his prostitutes off the streets, but only after a final night of earnings before the lull of the Thanksgiving weekend. The UnSub had killed his latest victim on Monday, so the pimp had reasoned that he was unlikely to kill again so soon.

Reid walked as fast as he could down the trash-strewn sidewalk. He scanned his surroundings with his eyes, blinking away brown and blonde, zeroing in on red wherever his brain saw it. In the darkness, red looked black and black looked red, so the hunt was difficult. Hunting was more like fishing than hunting. From a distance, he would see red, but when he came closer, he would see that red was black. He would have to throw the fish back into the sea. He would have to continue the hunting that was too much like fishing to satisfy a predator's impulses, getting more and more desperate as he searched for the woman with the titian hair.

In order to calm himself as he searched, Reid contemplated the profile of the UnSub. The profile had come to him as a flash of insight the night before, on the way home from work. The psychology and behavior had made perfect sense while he had constructed them in his mind. They had continued to make sense while he had spoken them aloud in the Round Table Room. It was only after he had spoken, during the silence that followed, that he had begun to doubt the profile. He doubted not the accuracy of the profile, but its implications for himself.

The profile had been more like a profile of himself than a profile of the UnSub. During the silence, he had analyzed this thought and found it to be inaccurate.

The profile had been both a profile of himself and a profile of the UnSub. This thought had been accurate, but he had not wanted it to be so. That was why he had made up the story about the pimp. He had made up the story to distance himself from the UnSub. He did not know if the UnSub was really a pimp or if the UnSub was really a pimp in love with his prostitute or if the prostitute had really left the UnSub for another pimp. For all he knew, the UnSub could be a psychotic individual who had mistaken each prostitute for the corpse of his sexually abusive mother that he kept frozen in a cryogenic tank in the basement. But he did not believe this, because the profile had made sense, and the story had fit the profile. The story had shown him that he was entirely unlike the UnSub.

First of all, Reid was not a pimp. He was not the lion at the center of a pride of lionesses. He was an ungulate, grazing the savanna with his herd, the runtish one at the back of the pack, trying his best not to lag behind for fear of the prowling felines.

Second, Reid had not lost anyone to anyone else, because he had never had anyone in the first place. In this respect, he was both worse off and better off than the pimp. The pimp had owned his prostitute, but, although he had owned his prostitute, he had not enjoyed a meaningful relationship, either platonic or romantic, with her. Theirs had been a business relationship - superior and subordinate, colleagues at best. Unlike the pimp, Reid had not owned her, but he had at least enjoyed a platonic relationship with her. He had been content with the platonic relationship until she had wanted to bump the platonic relationship down to a business relationship - colleagues rather than friends, colleagues willing to exchange greetings in the lobby but unwilling to carry a greeting upstairs. The seemingly minor incident had reminded him of his dissatisfaction with the platonic relationship, dredging up the many negative emotions that he had experienced in the aftermath of the failed romantic relationship. Indeed, the romantic relationship had not even failed, because it had not even existed to fail. The romantic relationship had not existed, and the lioness, to rub salt in the wound, had presented the lion with a cub that he had not wanted, because it had not been his.

Finally, Reid was entirely unlike the pimp, because the pimp had wanted, and still wanted, to hurt his prostitute, and Reid had never wanted to hurt JJ. No amount of negative emotions or aggressive impulses, whether those of ungulate or lion, predator or prey, could make Reid hurt JJ. It was as simple as that.

For Reid, the analysis, like all analyses, brought him comfort. The hunt brought him the prey, in the form of the woman with the titian hair. She loitered in an empty lot, tying up her bright orange hair into a long straight ponytail. Reid felt himself drawn to her hair. He felt an uncontrollable impulse to examine it under his Maglite. He wanted to compare its color to the color that he had assigned to it and projected, in the form of hair follicles, onto the screen. As he walked up to her, with a happy bounce in his step, Reid delighted in the thought that he had found the UnSub's JJ before the UnSub had found her. It was all up to him to save her from him.

"Felicia," he said her name.

* * *

Let me just say it this way: If Reid were an ungulate, I would totally chase him down, and if Reid were a lion, I would totally join his pride. Too creepy? Anyone with me?

Next up: Reid and the UnSub's JJ.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Felicia," Reid approached the woman with the titian hair.

"Did Ryan send you?" Felicia asked, flicking her ponytail behind her shoulders.

"A fork in the road," the thought flashed itself through Reid's mind, prompting him to tell the truth, "No, I'm not a client. I'm an FBI agent. My name is..."

"Shit!" Felicia glanced both ways for an escape route, swiveled on her high heels, and began fleeing the scene.

"No, no, no!" Reid gave chase. "It's not like that! I didn't come here to arrest you. We...The FBI leaves street prostitution to the local authorities. I came here to warn you about a serial killer. I think you may be his next target."

"A serial killer?" Felicia turned to face him, but continued backing away towards a shed, the equipment shed that had formerly held the gardening tools for the empty lot that had formerly been a neighborhood park. "Are you kidding me? Is this some kind of joke?"

"Didn't you know? Didn't Ryan tell you?" Reid followed her towards the shed. "Your friend, the one with the auburn hair...She was murdered last night, near the railroad tracks, by a serial killer targeting redheaded prostitutes. I think you may be his next target. That's why I came here to warn you."

"Nancy?" Felicia stared in shock. "Nancy was murdered? Nancy's dead? That can't be! There's no way! I just talked to her yesterday."

"She was murdered late last night, around 10 PM," Reid said. "You haven't heard from her today, have you?"

"No," Felicia whimpered, shaking her head as her ponytail danced back and forth behind her back. "She didn't meet me for breakfast today. I thought she must have been busy with a client. Oh God, I can't believe this. Nancy! Oh God," she covered her mouth with one hand to stifle a sob.

At the sob, Reid reached out a hand of comfort. The sob touched him, the same way the tuft of grass had touched him in his dream of the frail old man. He marveled at the fragility of life. Here on the streets, the prey roamed amongst the predators. Theirs was an uncertain unstable life in which none of them understood, or sought to understand, the desires they fulfilled every night. The desires were not always carnal. The desirer was not always an animal. They could not always fulfill the desires.

"Here," Reid gestured towards a collection of cinderblocks that formed a low makeshift bench on the far side of the shed, the side that faced away from the lot and the street beyond. "Why don't we have a seat? I'll explain everything to you."

"Are you really an FBI agent?" Felicia narrowed her eyes warily.

"Yes, I am," Reid reached for his credentials. "Dr. Spencer Reid, Behavioral Analysis Unit, FBI," he handed her his badge. "Let's sit down," he sat down on a damp cinderblock, waiting for her to sit down before he began the story.

Felicia read over the credentials, mouthing his name several times before she made up her mind to trust him. She smoothed her short blue velvet skirt over her stockingless thighs. She sat down, stretched her legs in front of her, and wrapped her arms around each other, shivering in the unseasonably warm, but still cool, November night.

"You look cold," Reid took off his coat and draped it across her shoulders.

"Thanks," Felicia smiled shyly, pulling the coat towards her chest as she burrowed into the soft inviting flannel, still warm with the residual warmth of its former wearer, kept warm by the warmth radiating from its former wearer.

Reid smiled back, flickering a tiny reserved smile that was incongruous with such a bold act. He wondered what he would have done if JJ had been the one who looked cold. Would he have taken off his coat and draped it across her shoulders? He would have considered it, analyzing the pre-action motives and the post-action consequences, but during the time interval that he spent considering it, the interval that lasted longer for him than for anyone else neurotic enough to consider it, someone else would have gone ahead and done it. He would have missed his chance, and she would never have known that he had considered such a bold act at all.

"I didn't come here just to warn you about the serial killer," Reid began the story with a confession of his ulterior motives. "I also came here to ask you for your help on the case."

"What are you talking about?" Felicia blinked, puzzled. "My help on what case?"

"Let me explain," Reid started over. "We...The BAU has been working on a case involving a serial killer targeting prostitutes in the city. Since early October, the unknown subject, or UnSub, has murdered eleven victims in various red light districts around DC. He chooses his victims based on their hair colors. We have good reason to believe that he is currently targeting a prostitute with red hair. That's why we asked your pimp, Ryan Jonas, to take you and your friends off the streets for the time being."

"So that's why we're not working this weekend," Felicia rolled her eyes as the realization dawned upon her. "Ryan only told us that we were getting a break, but he didn't tell us why. He made it sound like he was doing us a big favor. He said that we had to work tonight, but that he'd give us Thanksgiving off to be with our families, as if we have families to be with."

"How long have you been working for Ryan?" Reid asked.

"A few months," Felicia replied. "September, October, November...Almost three months now. I started right after Labor Day weekend."

"Did you switch to Ryan from another pimp?" Reid asked.

"Yeah, I ditched my other guy in August," Felicia replied. "End of August was when I ditched him. He was the first guy I worked for. Ryan's only the second."

"Can you tell me more about the first guy?" Reid reached into his messenger bag to retrieve a pencil and a little black notebook. "Starting with his name, his full name, and his nickname as a pimp."

"Wait, what are you doing?" Felicia frowned at the notebook. "What's going on? Are you investigating this guy?"

"Yes," Reid lowered the pencil and notebook to his lap, so he could explain everything to her without the threat of recording devices looming over them. "We're investigating him as a suspect in the series of murders that I told you about. We don't know who he is, but we're hoping that you can help us trace our way back to him. We believe that he, the UnSub, is looking for a woman, a prostitute, with your particular hair color. The woman may be a substitute for another woman who departed from his life sometime before October, when the murders began. Or she may be the actual woman who departed from his life. Whichever scenario is accurate, the UnSub is looking for a prostitute with your hair color. Your hair color is very rare. Red hair occurs in only 1% to 2% of the human population, and naturally red hair of your particular shade is rarer still. Amongst all the prostitutes who work this area, I'm guessing that you're the only one with ginger hair."

"Yeah, I'm the only ginger," Felicia nodded. "Some of the other girls have naturally red hair, but I wouldn't count them as gingers. When I was little, all the kids at school used to make fun of me for my bright orange hair. It's naturally frizzy too. I have to straighten it every night before I come out here. Ryan tells me that my clients prefer sleek shiny red hair. At least it's finally good for something," she snickered bitterly.

"The guy you left," Reid prompted. "Was he fixated upon your hair?"

"Yeah, a little bit," Felicia wrinkled her nose in disgust. "A lot of men seem to have some kind of weird hair color fetish. That's why Ryan does such good business with only eight...now seven of us," she lowered her eyes to her knees.

"Can I just..." Reid hesitated as he pulled out his Maglite. "Before we go on, I just want to make sure that I'm talking to the right person. It's really dark here, and human color vision doesn't work very well in the dark, so if I could just..." he waved the flashlight at her ponytail, hesitating to turn it on until she gave him permission to examine her hair.

"Yeah, sure, look all you want," Felicia giggled at his nervous gesturing.

"Thanks! This will only take a minute," Reid leaned backwards as Felicia leaned forwards to offer him her hair.

Gently, so as not to pull it, he lifted her ponytail out from within the folds of his coat. He flicked on the flashlight and shone the beam over the strands. The color was a perfect match for the color from the projector screen, for the color that he had selected for and conferred upon her. The strands were silky smooth and fragrant. They tickled the back of his hand as he ran them through his fingers, examining them, at a respectable distance, with his eyes, while desiring to bury his face in their tantalizing follicles - medium thickness, vivid orange, blonde highlights.

"All done," Reid announced, flicking off the flashlight.

"What's the diagnosis, Doctor?" Felicia giggled again as she shifted her ponytail to hang over her right shoulder.

"It's the right color, a perfect match," Reid put away the flashlight. "Your story about the guy you left...It convinces me that the UnSub is looking for the object of his affection. He's not looking for a substitute. He's looking for you," he mumbled to himself, looking down at the ground, not at her or her hair. "I think the UnSub is looking for you," he turned his eyes towards her. "I think the UnSub is the pimp you left in August."

"Nate?" Felicia gaped, struggling to grasp the idea. "You think Nate is a serial killer? You've gotta be kidding me! Nate as a serial killer is the most ridiculous..." she shook her head in disbelief.

"Tell me more about Nate," Reid said. "What is his full name?"

"Nathan Christopher Davis," Felicia answered. "He's not even a real pimp. He's a musician. He plays bass in a band with his buddies."

"How old is he?" Reid scribbled in his notebook, following a habit that he had assumed, when he had first joined the BAU, to appear professional and normal.

"He's 25," Felicia said. "Same age as me. We grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, hung out in high school, but weren't really all that close. After graduation, we lost track of each other for awhile, then met up a year ago at a nightclub. I introduced him to some of my girlfriends. We were all looking to make some money, so...you know..."

"So he became an informal pimp of sorts, arranging clients for you and your girlfriends, while pursuing his musical ambitions?" Reid completed the statement.

"Yeah, pretty much," Felicia nodded.

"You said that you hung out in high school, but weren't really all that close," Reid read out of his notebook. "What was the exact nature of your relationship?"

"We were friends," Felicia said.

"Was there ever a romantic relationship?" Reid asked. "Was there ever an intimate relationship?"

"This one time," Felicia replied. "It was nothing. We fooled around under the bleachers after school. Believe me, it was really nothing!"

"Afterwards, after this...nothing," Reid blushed. "Did Nate wish to pursue a romantic relationship with you?"

"Nate always wanted to pursue something or other with me," Felicia twirled a ring around her index finger. "But we were only teenagers at that point. We were 16. We were experimenting. I wasn't interested in him then, and I'm still not interested in him now."

"So you never intended to pursue a romantic relationship with him?" Reid asked.

"Hell no," Felicia waved her hand, as if the waving of her hand repelled the unwanted attentions of her former pimp. "He's a little...To put it kindly, he's a little too nerdy for my taste. He's really into his music. I mean, really really into it, way out there when he talks about it. He doesn't just play in a band. He also studies theory of music, or whatever it's called."

"Music theory," Reid filled in. "The study of music in all its aspects, from the fundamental elements of music, such as melody, rhythm, and harmony, to the ways in which the elements are combined and arranged to create the expressive qualities of music, both the feelings the music induces and the stories the music tells."

"Stories, huh?" Felicia remarked. "I thought it was all just noise. I'm pretty tone-deaf."

"So am I," Reid smiled. "I can't carry a tune to save my life."

"Nate's got a really good voice," Felicia said. "But he's much too shy to sing. If he were the lead singer in his band, I bet his band would be getting a lot more gigs."

"When was the last time you communicated with Nate?" Reid reverted to the line of questioning. "Do you know what he's doing now? Is he still with his band?"

"I haven't talked to him since August, when I left," Felicia replied. "I have no idea what's going on with him or his band. I always tried to avoid talking to him about his band and his music. Once he starts up, he just goes on and on and on, forever and ever and ever."

"What about the other girls who worked for Nate?" Reid diverted the line of questioning. "Did they stick around after you left? Are you in contact with any of them?"

"Yeah, as far as I know, they did," Felicia said. "I'm assuming everything's the same as it was before I left. The only thing that's changed is I'm not there anymore."

"Why did you leave?" Reid asked.

"I wanted out," Felicia said breezily, averting her eyes to avoid his gaze.

"Out of prostitution?" Reid frowned. "But you left Nate only to switch to another pimp, this time a formal pimp whose primary business is pandering."

"I wanted out of Philly," Felicia answered without explanation.

"You're from Philadelphia?" Reid asked. "You're not from DC?"

"No," Felicia shook her head. "I was born and raised in Philly. I left to get away from...um..."

"From drug dealers?" Reid guessed. "You had a drug habit, and you owed money to drug dealers. You fled here to avoid paying. You made a clean break."

"It's not like I didn't wanna pay!" Felicia held out her hands defensively. "I didn't have the money. I was in over my head. Plus, I wasn't making much money working for Nate. He didn't arrange that many clients for me."

"Why was that?" Reid asked. "Did the other girls get more clients than you did?"

"Yeah, they always got more clients than I did, even though I was the one who introduced them to him," Felicia said angrily.

"You said that Nate always wanted to pursue something or other with you. It seems to me that he was interested in you as a romantic partner, that he has been interested in you since high school, and that the incident under the bleachers encouraged his interest, but that he held back his interest because you never displayed any interest in him, despite the incident under the bleachers, the nothing that to you was not worth mentioning, but that to him must have been an initally joyful but subsequently traumatic experience, the switch occurring when he realized your lack of interest in him despite whatever sexual acts you must have perfomed with him," Reid concluded. "That would explain his reluctance to arrange clients for you. He must still be holding onto you in some romantic fantasy of his. Did he wish to pursue a romantic relationship with you at any point during your business relationship?"

"Not that I know of," Felicia considered the seemingly convoluted, but actually straightforward, analysis. "He didn't ask me out or anything, if that's what you mean. I wouldn't have gone out with him. As I said, he's not my type."

"Why is that?" Reid asked.

"I already told you," Felicia stared in annoyance. "He's the quiet nerdy type. I'm not into guys like that. He's broody too. To tell you the truth, he creeps me out a little. Always has, always will."

"How so?" Reid asked.

"He gives me these weird looks, like he's...checking me out, but not really in the way that most guys would check out a girl. It's like he's hoping that I'll...respond to him if he just stares at me long enough. Like I'll suddenly see the light and fall head over heels in love with him! It's really creepy!" Felicia shuddered and burrowed deeper into the coat.

"So he loved you," Reid stated, not in the form of a question. "He was and is _in_ love with you?" this time, in the form of a question.

"I guess, if you can call it that," Felicia said.

"He did love you," Reid nodded to himself, "He does love you," he continued nodding to himself.

"What kind of doctor are you?" Felicia asked. "Are you some kind of shrink or something?"

"I'm not a trained psychiatrist or psychologist," Reid explained. "But I do study human psychology and behavior. I study the criminal mind," he tapped his temple. "I examine the psychological motives behind criminal behaviors. For each case, I formulate a theory of the criminal mind that applies to the specific UnSub in the case. In science, theories make predictions. Predictions are testable hypotheses that I can use to catch the UnSub before he strikes again."

"Sounds complicated," Felicia said.

"Not really," Reid sighed deeply. "Once you learn all about it, once you've read the books and attended the lectures and solved the cases, you discover that profiling isn't really as complicated or fascinating or engaging as you had initially imagined. It's just a bunch of theories to apply. I've been working in the field for the past six years, and I've applied most of the theories at least once. I've even come up with some new theories of my own. It keeps me occupied when I'm bored at work. I'm constantly getting bored at work. Especially now that JJ is gone. When JJ was there, I used to sit at my desk in the bullpen and think about her. I used to wonder what she looked like naked. This one time, when she brought me a cake for my 24th birthday, I even snuck a peek at her chest. See, she was leaning over me, and I couldn't help it. I think she noticed, so I covered it up by sneaking a peek in the other direction, at our colleague, Elle Greenaway. I don't think Elle noticed. I don't think I'd be here today if Elle had noticed," he chuckled boyishly.

"What a naughty boy!" Felicia laughed and ruffled his hair.

"Most of the time, I think about why it didn't work out between me and JJ," Reid continued. "As I told the other prostitute, the blonde one who looked like JJ, I asked her out on a date once, and she agreed to go out with me. Afterwards, she told me that she wasn't interested in another date with me. Right afterwards...The very same day. Now, the thing I don't understand is, at what point did she decide that she wasn't interested in me? Was it during the football game? She looked like she was having fun the whole time. She told me that she was having fun. Did I do something to offend her during the game? Maybe on the drive over or on the drive back? Was I being my usual insufferable self? What was it about me that day that caused her to decide, immediately after our date, that she wasn't interested in another date with me? What caused her to reject me in the span of a few hours? Looking back, it seems like she rejected me not because of what happened on our date, but because she had planned to reject me all along. But if that's the case, then why did she agree to go out on a date with me in the first place? It's a complete mystery to me. I can't figure it out. I hate it when I can't figure things out. Things like that always eat away at me. This has been eating away at me, on and off, for years now. Do you have any idea why it didn't work out?"

"Well, she did agree to go out with you, so..." Felicia trailed off without offering insight.

"Yeah, my point exactly!" Reid exclaimed in excitement. "I ask her out on a date. That means I'm interested in her. I'm romantically interested in her. She knows that. Isn't that clear?"

"Crystal," Felicia nodded.

"She agrees to go out with me," Reid said. "Doesn't that mean she's interested in me? At least interested enough to explore the possibilities? Why agree to go out with someone you're not the least bit interested in? Why agree to go out at all if you see no possibility of a romantic relationship down the road?"

"I dunno," Felicia blew on her hands. "I don't go out with people I'm not interested in. I just say no. I just reject them then and there. I don't go out with them, knowing full well that I'm going to reject them right after the date."

"I've considered two possibilities," Reid opened the analysis. "One, she only agreed to go out with me because I had Redskins tickets, and she was a huge Redskins fan. I call this scenario, 'Whoring For Tickets'. Two, she felt sorry for me, thinking that I had never gone out on a date before, so she thought she'd help me come out of my shell by going out with me just that one time. I call this, 'Whoring From Pity'. In either scenario, she had no romantic interest in me whatsoever."

"Sounds like a bitch," Felicia commented. "Sounds like a total tease. I don't know which is worse, going out with you for the tickets or going out with you out of pity."

"Actually, I've just thought of a third possibility," Reid chuckled sarcastically. "You wanna hear it?" he glanced conspiratorially at the prostitute.

"Sure," the prostitute smiled encouragingly.

"Third, Gideon paid JJ to go out with me," Reid smiled back. "Gideon is a pimp. JJ is a prostitute. I am a client. In this case, the pimp pays the prostitute to go out with the client, who, luckily, doesn't have to pay!"

"Who's Gideon?" the prostitute asked, wrinkling her brow in confusion.

"Don't do that," Reid reached out a finger to smooth away the wrinkle. "It'll leave permanent lines. It'll make you look older almost as fast as the drugs will."

"Who's Gideon?" the prostitute asked again.

"Gideon is my former mentor at the BAU," Reid explained. "He was the one who recruited me to the BAU. He gave me Redskins tickets for my 24th birthday. When I asked him if we were going to the game together, he told me that JJ was a huge Redskins fan, implying that I should ask her out to the game, implying that she would only go out with me if I dangled Redskins tickets in front of her, implying that she would never be interested in me on my own merits. He must have paid JJ to whore herself out to me, just so I could have one normal human experience in my pitiful deprived life. I was his little puppy that was intellectually brilliant, emotionally immature, and socially awkward. I needed help. It was all up to Gideon to help me. That was why he paid JJ to go out on that one date with me. In retrospect, it's clear that he didn't pay her enough. Why didn't he pay her more to go out on a second date with me? He could've paid her to start dating me exclusively. Why stop there? He could've taken up a collection in the FBI to get her to sleep with me. Maybe a bake sale or..."

"I don't think that's what happened," the prostitute interrupted. "JJ's your colleague in the FBI, right? And so is Gideon? I don't think she'd whore herself out just because this Gideon person wanted her to date you. That sounds crazy."

"What do you know about crazy?" Reid snapped at the prostitute. "You only know about whoring. You're a whore. Just like her. You're all whores. Blondes, brunettes, redheads...You're all whores. You walk around the streets, flipping your hair this way and that, trying to attract attention with the color and the shine and the smell, trying to wrap men...victims...around your little fingers. For what purpose? Who knows? Not for the money. You'd probably still do it, even if you didn't get paid. That's what you do. It is in your nature to be a whore, so you whore for a living. All of you. You want to do it, even when you don't have to. You said it yourself. Why wasn't Nate arranging more clients for you? How come all the other girls got more opportunities to whore themselves out than you did? Did you ever stop to think that you could have stopped whoring if you had loved him back? He would've supported you. He would've done anything for you. He would've given up his stupid band and his stupid music. He would've gotten a real job. He would've stopped pimping. But no! You enjoyed whoring so much that you had to continue! You had to beg for more clients! Oh, look at me! My hair is so pretty! Look how red and shiny and sleek! It's all natural too! Except for the fact that I have to straighten it before I come out here for a night of whoring! Why aren't there more men lining themselves up to run their fingers through my pretty pretty hair? Why aren't they..."

"Stop it! Shut up!" the prostitute lashed out, slapping Reid across the face as she threw off his coat and jumped up to leave.

"Don't tell me to shut up!" Reid jumped up just as quickly, grabbing her ponytail and pulling it, and her, backwards towards him. "I'm tired of people telling me to shut up! I'm going to say whatever I want, whenever I want! If I say you're a whore, then you're a whore. If I say JJ's a whore, then JJ's a whore. I'm the client. Haven't you ever heard the expression, 'The customer is always right'?"

"Stop it!" the prostitute screeched, reaching back to wrench her ponytail out of his grasp. "Let go of me! I'm calling the police!"

"Sorry, Whore," Reid pushed her into the shed, pinning her arms between her body and the wall, turning himself to take his revolver out of her reach.

He didn't want the revolver to interfere with the proceedings. He needed to kill this one as slowly and painfully as possible.

"Didn't I tell you?" he shoved her face into the wall, decided that he needed to see her face, and maneuvered her by her ponytail until he could see her features in profile. "I'm an FBI agent. You read over my credentials. You don't have to call anyone. I'm already here."

"Get off!" the prostitute twisted her shoulders, trying to throw his hands off her body.

"Get off?" Reid snickered. "Are you sure you want that to happen? Oh wait, I forgot. You're a whore. Of course you want that to happen! That's what you do! You help your clients get off! Well, listen to me, Whore, you're going to help me tonight, in a really big way, in a much bigger way than getting off," he kneed her in the back of her knees, enjoying the thudding sound of her knees hitting the shed, enjoying the visible trembling of her legs. "Now, before we get started, I've got to warn you about something. I've got a gun, but I don't intend to use it. I intend to use my hands instead. I may not look big, not like your type, but I can still snap your neck, because I know exactly which part of the neck to snap to turn you into a quadriplegic for life. Do you know what a quadriplegic is?" he breathed into her ear, pausing, waiting for the shaky nod that came after hardly a moment's hesitation. "You don't need me to explain it to you? You don't need me to demonstrate?" she tried, but failed, to shake her head, frozen in place by his unexpectedly strong hands with their long fingers grasping her neck and their fingernails digging into her flesh.

"Good," Reid let out a deep breath. "Let's start from the beginning. Let's tell the whole story from the beginning," he wrapped the fingers of one hand across the front of her throat, pinching the sides of her neck to occlude the arteries and veins, using his other hand to stroke the vertebrae below her skull as a reminder of his threat. "In the beginning, there were a boy named Nathan and a girl named Felicia. Nathan and Felicia grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, hung out in high school, but weren't really all that close. Nathan liked Felicia. Felicia, being a whore, liked Nathan enough to whore herself out to him this one time under the bleachers after school. Nathan, being neither a whore or a profiler equipped to recognize whores whenever he saw them, misinterpreted the psychological motives behind the whoring behavior. Nathan, not being a whore, assumed, wrongly, that Felicia liked him enough to pursue a non-whoring romantic relationship with him. Felicia, being a whore, was not familiar with the nature of non-whoring romantic relationships. Felicia, being a whore, continued the whoring behavior for the next two years, whoring herself out to every susceptible male within a one-mile radius of the bleachers. For the next two years, Nathan, being easily bored and naturally broody, sat at his desk in class and thought about Felicia. He wondered why Felicia had ditched him after she, being a whore, had whored herself out to him. He wondered why Felicia had agreed to whore herself out to him, if she, being a whore, had never had any intention of pursuing a non-whoring romantic relationship with him. Nathan, not being a whore, couldn't figure it out! Nathan hated not being able to figure things out! Things like that always ate away at him! Nathan, having a neurotic personality in combination with high rejection sensitivity, overanalyzed all his social interactions with Felicia, playing them over and over in his mind until he had dredged up all the negative emotions and aggressive impulses that should have led him to kill her at that time. Fortunately for Felicia and unfortunately for all the other whores of the world, Nathan did not kill her at that time. At that time, Nathan had been an antelope. Nathan had not yet become a lion. It was only years later, after Felicia, being a whore, had repeated the whoring behavior, that Nathan, not being a whore, but now being a lion, had acted upon his negative emotions and aggressive impulses, first fishing for whores who did not resemble Felicia, then hunting for whores who did, all the while remaining loyal to Felicia, who, being a whore, did not understand the concept of loyalty, which, being an element of the set of non-whoring behaviors, was not an element of the null set, which, by definition, had no elements and zero cardinality, formed by the intersection of the set of non-whoring behaviors with the set of Felicia's behaviors."

Reid stopped, exhausted after his outburst. His stomach growled insistently. He had still not eaten anything since the Twix bars of the previous night. It had been nearly 24 hours since he had eaten anything or killed anyone. He wanted to kill her, so he could head off towards the Metro, grab some junk food along the way, and devour it on the train, in the frenzied hunger after the kill. He could barely control his fingers around her neck, reigning back the impulses that urged them to throttle her. This time, in this case, he had to hold back. He had to practice the delayed gratification that was inconsistent with his neurotic personality. He breathed. He held back. He held back for JJ. Killing the prostitute, slowly and painfully, would help him let go of JJ. He had to let go of JJ. He had to keep JJ safe. Holding back, holding on, letting go - they were all acts of love.

"I have another story to tell you," Reid nuzzled the prostitute's ear as he tightened his hands around her throat. "It's not about Nathan and Felicia this time. It's about me. It's about me and the prostitutes I killed. Do you know why I killed them?" he loosened his grip around her neck, letting her breathe a little, remembering to kill her slowly and painfully, so he could let go of JJ, so he could keep JJ safe. "I killed them for several reasons. I'm going to let you in on my motives, one at a time, and you're going to tell me if they're good or bad, OK?" he lifted her face away from the shed and slammed it, sideways, into the rotting wall.

"OK, OK," the prostitute sobbed, blood trickling down the side of her face where she had scratched her skin against the wood.

"Good," Reid tapped the fingers of one hand over her throat, pretending to play it like an instrument. "Motive number one, I wanted to solve the case. The case was my baby. I wanted to push the UnSub, Nathan Christopher Davis, into escalating his crimes. Before I killed the blonde prostitute, the one who looked like JJ, the UnSub had been committing his crimes at a moderate pace, one every few days. After I killed the blonde, I figured that the UnSub, having run out of blondes and brunettes to kill, would kill his next victim, a redhead, very very soon. Unfortunately, he didn't act right away, and I lacked the patience to wait. I've got an impulse control problem. I've got issues with delayed gratification. I went looking for the auburn-haired prostitute, Nancy, last night. I went to warn her, then to kill her. I did the same thing tonight, except tonight, I was looking for the ginger-haired prostitute, Felicia, the one that the auburn-haired prostitute, Nancy, had told me was the reddest of them all. I came to warn her, then to kill her. Do you think that Nate is going to be mad at me for making all his kills, for taking all his victims, for getting to you before he got to you himself? Do you see how this helps me solve the case? You've given me a name, an occupation, an identity for the UnSub. My profile was right, and so was my story, the one I bullshitted about the pimp in love with his prostitute. He's not mistaking the prostitutes for anyone else. He's killing the other prostitutes out of loyalty to the original prostitute, the one who whored herself out to him under the bleachers after school. Do you see that each murder is a test of loyalty and an act of love? The unfortunate part is that he still has to pay for his crimes. For me, the only thing left to do is trace my way back to him through you. Once your body is found, your identity will be established, and once your identity is established, his identity will be established, and the whole story, the one I told you about Nathan and Felicia, will come out. Then, we're going to barge into his motel room and take him out in a spray of bullets. The only unknown is whether Hotch will let me go on the raid. I think he will, because he knows that this is the first case I've screened, and that I'll need to see things through to the end. Hotch is a good boss. He's perceptive when he wants to be. Just in case though, I'll have to remember to look extra pitiful to make him feel sorry for me, so he can make the right decision this time. This time won't be like last time, when he made the wrong decision. Afterwards, it'll be another case solved, another UnSub apprehended, another crime spree ended. What do you think? Good or bad?"

"Good," the prostitute squeaked through a constricted throat.

"Bad," Reid slammed her face against the wall again, hearing the cracks and pops of fracturing bones and rupturing cartilage, the sounds convincing him that her delicate features had been irreparably deformed. "That's not a good reason to kill two, soon-to-be three, human beings! Why don't you think before you speak? Let's move on," he shifted his hands around her throat, masking the numerous small ligature marks with one large mark that obscured the trees in the forest. "Motive number two, I wanted to do something. I was sick and tired of inactivity. I was bored with my work. I wanted to do something that didn't involve sitting in a dark office staring at crime scene photos after the crimes had already been committed. I wanted to commit the crimes myself. Afterwards, I could sit in a dark office staring at crime scene photos, savoring the fruits of my own labor. What do you think? Good or bad?"

"Bad," the prostitute gurgled in her throat, scrunching up her face on the side that had not yet suffered, and bracing for the coming blow.

"Bad," Reid agreed calmly. "What a stupid motive! The stupidest excuse I've ever heard! I started killing people because I was bored? What kind of explanation is that? Don't ever mention it again!" he pinched the sides of her neck until she was on the verge of losing consciousness, then relaxed his fingers to let her recover her senses. "Motive number three, I loved JJ. What do you think? Good or bad?"

"I dunno," the prostitute cried, the tears following the curve of her chin down her throat as he pulled her ponytail further downwards to tilt her face further upwards. "I don't understand," she agitated her head helplessly.

"Let me explain," Reid breathed onto the crown of her head, resting his chin upon her sleek shiny red hair. "It's easy to explain. I killed the prostitutes to let go of JJ. All the negative emotions and aggressive impulses that I had built up and bottled up since our failed date came flooding back to me after she left the Bureau. As long as she had been there, as long as I could see her, I had no desire to hurt her. As soon as she left, as soon as I could no longer see her, I started to think about hurting her. I wanted to wrap my fingers around her neck and strangle her, until she coughed up blood, fresh red blood that dripped down her chin, then down her throat, then onto my hands, so I could have an excuse to tighten my fingers around her neck, because my fingers would be slippery from all the blood, and I would have to squeeze her neck even harder to hold onto her. Then, I realized that I was being stupid. Stupid doesn't fit me. I'm almost never stupid, except when I'm around JJ. Did you know that was why I started running around Hankel's farm like a puppy chasing its tail? I wanted to impress JJ with my FBI sleuthing capabilities while I had her all to myself. My sleuthing consisted of peeking into the window of a house to find a psychotic serial killer staring back at me! That didn't end well, or maybe it did, but I won't bore you with the details. All you need to know is that you've helped me let go of JJ. If you had never been such a whore, then Nathan would never have started his murder spree, and if Nathan had never started his murder spree, then I would never have continued it for him, and if I had never continued it for him, then I would have hurt JJ, one day, sooner or later, probably sooner, because as I said, she left, not because she wanted to, but because Strauss made her, but that made no difference to me, because I have always wanted to hurt her, ever since she rejected me, and it hurt, because I loved her, but now, having acted out all my negative emotions and aggressive impulses upon a trio of prostitutes, I'm back to feeling nothing, just like I felt nothing after shooting that trio of muggers in the alley behind the library. Whenever I felt nothing, I wanted to feel something, but whenever I felt something, I wanted to hurt JJ. I took action to avoid hurting JJ. I hurt prostitutes instead. Now that I've taken out my urges on your friends, and now that I'm about to take out my urges on you, I expect that my urges will go away. I will no longer love JJ. I will no longer want to hurt JJ. The funny thing is it wasn't until I started fishing and hunting for prostitutes that I realized that JJ was a prostitute as well. She, being a whore, was not worthy of me. She, being a whore, has never been worthy of me. I have never been a whore, not even during my lowest moments, not during my drug addiction and not during my murder spree. I, not being a whore, could never have loved a whore. I could never have loved JJ. If I could never have loved JJ, then why had I been deluding myself into thinking that I loved her and wanted to hurt her? I've come around to making a clean break. As of this moment, I no longer love JJ, and I no longer want to hurt JJ. I've let go of her for good. What do you think? Good or bad?"

"Please don't kill me..." the prostitute wailed as she coughed up blood, fresh red blood that dripped down her chin, then down her throat, then onto his hands, so he could have an excuse to tighten his fingers around her neck, because his fingers were slippery from all the blood, and he had to squeeze her neck even harder to hold onto her, to kill her, to let go of JJ, to keep JJ safe.

"Funny," Reid snorted. "That's what they all say. That's what all the whores say. I, not being a whore, have never said that. I said to _kill_ me...To please kill _me_! That's a much better way to go..."

Keeping one hand wrapped around her throat, he used the other hand to jerk her ponytail backwards and downwards, sharply, in a back-and-forth up-and-down motion, snapping her neck to make her a quadriplegic before turning her limp body towards the shed and smashing her forehead into the wall. The prostitute crumpled to the ground. Reid did not bother to pose her. He left the scene, making a clean break.

Back in the empty lot, he washed his hands in the rain, the pouring rain falling out of a cloudy night sky that had been clear the last time he had feasted his eyes upon it. He turned his face up to the rain, letting the water wash away the specks of blood from the killspray. He stuck his tongue out to taste the rainwater. He shook his head like a wet puppy, splashing water into water, as the rain poured upon him and into him and through him, the water washing away the urges along with the specks. He put on his coat, now all wet, and picked up his messenger bag, also wet, as he headed off towards the Metro. He gave up his plan of grabbing some junk food along the way and devouring it on the train, in the frenzied hunger after the kill. He was eager to get home to sleep away his hunger. The rain had washed away one urge only to replace it with another. If three tablets of Tylenol could send him into a drug-induced slumber, then imagine what 50 or 100 tablets could do. He desired the respite of an end, because, although he had let go of her, and although she was now but a pawn upon his chessboard, he still desired, knowing full well that it was all wrong, to move the pieces to play the game, but he also desired, through the goodness of his heart, to keep her, and everyone else, safe from him.

* * *

Happy Friday! I'm going to check myself into an insane asylum now. I hope my handlers let me update from my padded cell.

Next up: The super-ego judges.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

In modern organic synthesis, two experimental strategies dominated the field. One was target-oriented synthesis (TOS), the construction of a single organic molecule through a long linear series of reactions. The other was diversity-oriented synthesis (DOS), the construction of a library of organic molecules through a short branching tree of reactions. In TOS, the chemist synthesized a few milligrams of a single product after much agony and ecstasy, mostly agony. He did it to see if he could do it. In DOS, the chemist synthesized a few milligrams of many products after much ho-humming and hem-hawing, equal parts each. He did it to see what would happen. In the realm of suicide attempts, TOS was like shooting oneself in the head to see if one could do it, and DOS was like overdosing oneself on a combination of drugs to see what would happen. In both chemistry and suicide, one strategy was more perfect than the other.

Reid stood over the kitchen counter, looking down at the items that he had arranged into two groups. In one group were his FBI-issued revolver and his FBI credentials. In the other group were a box of Tylenol, a bottle of gin, and a pot of coffee.

"TOS or DOS?" the super-ego deliberated.

The super-ego judged, slowly this time, this time different from that time, an hour ago, in the empty lot, in the pouring rain, when it had judged quickly for the respite of an end. At first, when the urge had come upon him, Reid had believed that it had sprung from the subconscious id. Over time, he had realized that it had sprung from the subconscious super-ego. The urge of the super-ego was different from the urge of the id. The id wished to hurt the world. The super-ego wished to hurt the self. Unlike the id, the super-ego was perfect. It knew right and wrong.

Reid checked the number of bullets in his revolver. It was fully loaded, so there were six. He removed five, leaving one, the only one he needed.

Reid checked the number of tablets in the Tylenol box. It was a new box, so there were a hundred. He removed eight, grouping them into a pair and two trios, the pair for the frail old man he had killed, twice, in fantasy, and the trios for the muggers and the prostitutes he had killed, once each, in reality. Each tablet contained 500 milligrams of acetaminophen. Together, the eight tablets contained the 4000 milligrams of acetaminophen that was the maximum daily dose of Tylenol. Below the maximum daily dose, acetaminophen was a safe effective pain reliever/fever reducer. Above the maximum daily dose, at only twice the amount, acetaminophen was the leading cause of acute liver failure in the United States, accounting for three times as many cases as all other drugs combined and for 39% of all cases. When taken with alcohol and/or caffeine, acetaminophen was even more dangerous, causing acute liver failure at the maximum daily dose, with symptom onset delayed until 24 to 48 hours after administration of the drug, when the antidote was no longer effective. Acetaminophen overdose and acute liver failure, if left untreated, caused death within days, and Reid hated going to the doctor.

He stood over the kitchen counter, waiting for the judgment of the super-ego. He waited for an urge to come upon him. He waited for the super-ego to guide him towards one strategy or the other. It was not a question of if, but how.

As he waited, he wondered why he waited at all. The result was the same. He was sure that he could shoot himself in the head at point blank range, and he had no doubt that he could swallow enough tablets of Tylenol and drink enough shots of gin and cups of coffee to send himself into acute liver failure. Why wait? Why not go ahead and do one or the other? Why not do both?

"Both," the super-ego decided. "TOS _and_ DOS."

"Overkill," Reid stated for the benefit of the ego. "DOS, _then_ TOS," he plotted out the reaction scheme in the only way that he could do both.

Calmly, so as not to spill anything, Reid poured himself a cup of coffee from the cold stale pot that he had made on Monday morning, the day that he had given his inaugural case briefing, the day that now seemed lifetimes, and was soon to be another lifetime, away from him. Monday morning had been so much better than Tuesday night, but Monday morning had been far from perfect. After Monday morning, there had been Monday night. Before Monday morning, there had been Saturday afternoon. Before Saturday afternoon, there had been Thursday night. Before Thursday night, there had been Thursday afternoon, and Thursday afternoon had been the last time that things had been perfect, unless he counted the dreams of the frail old man, in which case the chain of imperfection linked back to the previous Friday morning, then to the previous Thursday morning. If he counted the other two times when he had killed someone and felt nothing, then the chain of imperfection linked back farther still, back to the graveyard, back to the hospital, and back to the question that, having no answer, he had already answered and was about to answer again.

How had it come to this? The super-ego had judged. Judgment required punishment.

Reid stared into the cup of coffee, visualizing his own reflection in the black liquid that reflected nothing. He brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. It was bitter, a tangy kind of bitterness that was utterly unlike his favorite beverage. A sip turned into a gulp. A gulp turned into a swig. He downed the coffee in three large swigs, puffing out his cheeks to swirl the acrid liquid all around his mouth and tasting the bitterness of the vile brew on his tongue before letting it slide down his gullet. He poured a second cup and drank it in the same manner. He poured and drank a third cup and a fourth before he turned his attention to the gin.

The gin came in the form of a green Tanqueray bottle. Not bothering to retrieve a shot glass from the cabinet above, Reid poured the gin into the same cup that had held the coffee. As with the coffee, he downed the gin in three large swigs, holding the burning liquid in his mouth until it threatened to crawl up his nose before releasing it to burn in his stomach. He poured a second cup and drank it in the same manner. He poured and drank a third cup and was about to pour and drink a fourth before he felt the familiar sensation of nausea creeping its way from his stomach up his throat into his mouth. The coffee and the gin had mixed together in his empty stomach to induce an immediate dyspepsia. He wanted to throw up. To avoid throwing up, he lowered himself to the floor. He leaned against a cabinet and reached up with his long arms to grab the eight tablets of Tylenol from the counter.

On the floor, he felt better, so he began to indulge in his feelings, skimming them, scanning them, searching them, desperate to find the feeling that he most desired to feel. In the nothingness following each kill, he had most desired to feel remorse, and a tiny part of him believed that he would never have killed anyone, not willingly, if he had felt remorse after the first kill, all those years ago, when he, having waited for something to replace nothing, had been terribly distraught that something had never appeared.

Reid swallowed the first tablet for the frail old man. He tried to visualize killing the old man, but found that he could not settle upon any particular method. In the dream, there had been no gunshot wounds to indicate a shooting death or ligature marks to indicate a strangling death. There had been no blood and gore. The body of the old man, though unusually light, had been unblemished, save for the blemishes of advanced age and unhealthy lifestyle, whatever those had been for the old man. In the dream, Reid had not actually killed the old man. He had only known that he done so after the fact. He suspected that the exact events would have appeared in a future dream, a prequel in which he would have found out exactly how he had killed the old man, if only he had been patient enough to wait. He had not been patient enough to wait, so he would never find out how he had killed the old man, the only one he had not killed at all.

Reid was sorry for killing the old man, the only one he had killed twice and not at all. In reality, he felt remorse for the transgressions of fantasy. Tears welled up in his eyes as he visualized the emaciated body, so light and fragile, being flipped, carelessly, over the side of the dumpster. He visualized the gaunt sunken face, eyes closed, mustache trimmed, brow relaxed, in the peaceful slumber of death. In the sleeping face of the old man, there had been no sign of reproach, and the lack of reproach reproached him all the more than if the face had been filled with reproach. He regretted killing the old man, but regret was not the same feeling as remorse. Remorse was directed towards the world, "I'm so sorry for what I've done." Regret was directed towards the self, "I really wish that I hadn't done it." Reid examined his feelings, teasing apart regret and remorse to uncover the genuine feeling that dominated his mind whenever he thought of the old man. He was surprised to find that his initial feeling of remorse held up under scrutiny. He really was sorry for killing the old man. He really was sorry for the old man.

For the old man, the one he had not killed but was sorry for killing, Reid shed a tear, then two, then three, then several more. Whatever life the old man had led, Reid was sure that he had not deserved the death that he had received, whatever that had been. Again, he focused upon the body. Something about its age and its state of deterioration fueled the feelings of remorse that threatened to erupt out of him. He stopped himself before remorse, the outwards feeling, turned into regret, the inwards feeling. Feeling sorry for the old man threatened to turn into feeling sorry for himself, and the super-ego, which had come to judge and punish, would not allow that to happen. Reid swallowed the second tablet, again for the frail old man, the one he had not killed but was sorry for killing.

The third tablet sat in the palm of his hand, in a trio with its two brethren, as he considered the three muggers. He recreated the scene in the alley behind the library, first in his mind, then in the kitchen. He tried to visualize the muggers, but it was dark, and he could not make out their faces through the curtains of rain. Through the falling rain, he heard the clattering of the useless unused knife. He cringed at the sound. It hurt him to realize how mismatched the battle had been, how there had hardly been any battle at all - three vs. one, knife vs. gun. He had held the advantage. He had not been used to holding the advantage. The experience, novel and exciting, had driven him into the predator-prey simulation of the novice killer. At the time, shooting one, then two, then three, had been the satisfaction of an urge that had come upon him as soon as he had heard the footsteps slapping through the puddles on the pavement. He had shot the muggers to satisfy the urge. He did not know where the urge had sprung from, but, in a flash of insight, he realized that it had been exacerbated by the dream. In the dream, he had not killed the old man, because he, seeking to be perfect, had not allowed himself to do so. In fantasy, he had not allowed himself to satisfy the urge. That was why the urge had followed him out of the dream, seeking satisfaction in reality where it had been denied in fantasy. Reid now wished that he had killed the old man. If only he had killed the old man! He was no longer sorry for killing the old man, nor was he sorry for the old man, not even when he visualized the body. If he had killed the old man in fantasy, then he would not have killed the muggers in reality. The urge would have been satisfied, and he would have made up for his imperfection in fantasy by being perfect in reality. The chain of reasoning would have worked if only he had believed himself to be perfect in reality, but of course, in reality, he had not believed such a thing for a very long time.

Sitting on the floor, swirling the tablets around his palm, Reid tried to feel remorse for killing the muggers. Was he sorry for killing the muggers? Was he sorry for the muggers? He thought he was, but when he analyzed the feeling, he found it more akin to regret than remorse. He regretted not killing the old man as much as he regretted killing the muggers. When he visualized the bodies, dead on the pavement, he felt nothing. When he visualized the muggers, alive in the rain, he felt the urge to kill them again. The urge thrilled him, jolting his thoughts into actions, in the kitchen, as in the alley. In his mind, behind his eyes, he replayed the chase down the alley. Finding that it was not enough, he replayed the chase in the air, before his eyes. He replayed the shooting and the missing. He replayed the mugger, instantly dead, flopping face-first onto a pile of soggy brown leaves. As soon as the body hit the ground, he wished that the body would spring back to life, so he could chase him down and kill him again. In the alley then, as in the kitchen now, he had wished the very same thing. The killing had not satisfied the urge to kill. The killing had only shocked it, temporarily, into nothing, and the replaying of the killing had heaved it back up, driving him to replay the chase again and again until he could hardly restrain himself from grabbing his revolver off the counter and firing it into the opposite wall, where the prey weaved as he ran, the prey evading the predator who knew what it felt like to be both predator and prey.

At the visions, Reid grimaced, tightening and loosening his face several times in succession as he tried to inhibit the urge. He inhibited the urge by stuffing his hands into his pockets to prevent himself from reaching for his revolver. The inhibition succeeded, so he moved on to elimination. He tried to eliminate the urge by shaking his head back and forth until he felt dizzy and achy. His hair was wet from the pouring rain, so the shaking sent droplets of water flying in all directions. For a moment, the flying droplets distracted him with their beauty, allowing him to recover enough of his mental faculties to think again. He thought, formulating a description for a predicament. Finally, here was a case in which he would rather feel nothing than something. He would rather feel nothing than the urge to kill again. The urge was inexplicable. He breathed deeply to calm himself. He blinked away the images to start over. He visualized the bodies, dead on the pavement. He avoided visualizing the muggers, alive in the rain. He recalled palpating at the carotid artery to ascertain that the muggers had died. He shook his head again, more dust devil than waterspout this time, to clear away the images of the muggers, to replace the images of the muggers with the images of the bodies. He stood up to look down at the floor, replacing the linoleum with pavement and the emptiness with bodies. Standing in the rain, staring at the bodies, he felt nothing. He felt too nauseous to stand up for long, so he sat back down and adjusted his perspective of the bodies. He stared at the bodies, lying a few feet away from him on the linoleum that had been replaced with pavement. The urge melted away, and he felt nothing again. It felt so good to feel nothing. It felt so good to know that the muggers were dead bodies on the pavement rather than live muggers in the rain. A part of him still wished that the bodies would spring back to life, so he could kill them again, but a larger part of him indulged in feeling nothing. The urge had not been eliminated, only suppressed, but it felt good to know that he could inhibit and suppress it, even as he knew that he could not eliminate it. As for the urge itself, he was sorry for feeling it. He was sorry for acting upon it. He brightened at the feeling. Was it remorse? It was not. It was regret. It was regret tinged with panic, and the panic had only appeared, because, in the attempt to distinguish remorse from regret, he had made the mistake of visualizing the muggers again, and as soon as he had visualized the muggers again, he had felt the urge to kill them again. For feeling the urge, he was so singly, doubly, and triply sorry that he swallowed all three tablets in one gulp, almost choking on them as they stuck in his throat, almost coughing them up before the saliva from his building nausea washed them into his stomach. He felt so nauseous that he could barely sit up against the cabinet. He adjusted his position until his head was the only part of him that leaned against the cabinet. He slipped and hit his head against the floor. It felt so good to feel something that was not the urge to kill, so he slammed his head against the wooden surface of the cabinet, once, twice, and thrice, just as he had slammed the head of the prostitute against the wooden surface of the shed. Afterwards, he felt even more dizzy, achy, and nauseous, so he lay down upon the floor, flat on his back, and turned his attention to the prostitutes, hoping that the images of the prostitutes would drive away the images of the muggers, knowing that the images of the prostitutes would heave up their own set of troubles.

The sixth, seventh, and eighth tablets were for the blonde prostitute named Rachel, the auburn-haired prositute named Nancy, and the ginger-haired prostitute named Felicia. Reid spooled their images out of his mind, into the air. He focused upon the blonde prostitute, the one who looked like JJ and was called Rachel. He had found out her name only after he had killed her, laid her out on the ground, and received the phone call about her murder. In the air above him, her face hovered, and he stared up at her, reaching out with one arm, hand, and finger to trace the features that resembled those of JJ. He knew now, as he had known then, that the resemblance had never been important. Only her hair, more strawberry than honey blonde, had been important. As long as she had possessed the hair color that had fit the pattern, he would have killed her, regardless of whether or not she had looked like JJ. By that time, after the old man and the muggers, the urge had been so strong that he had chosen a case for the express purpose of continuing a pattern. The pattern had provided direction. The profile that had emerged from the pattern had provided motive beyond intent. The id had wished to kill, in the form of its urges, but so had the ego, in the form of its needs. The ego had needed to let go of JJ, to keep JJ safe. It had known its needs, and it had felt its needs. The needs had been both intellectual - the knowledge that it was wrong to hold onto JJ and right to let go of JJ - and emotional - the feeling that it was wrong to hold onto JJ and right to let go of JJ. It had felt so good to let go of JJ. It had felt so good to keep JJ safe. Since the latest murder, Reid had not once felt the urge to hurt JJ. Now, when he visualized her face, he did not feel the urge to kill her. For him, murder had been therapy. Murder, like therapy, had washed away the bad feelings to replace them with nothing. Now, when he visualized the prostitutes, he felt nothing. He did not feel the urge to kill them again. In the nothingness, he searched for remorse. Finding none, he searched for regret. Finding none, he sighed in frustration. Why was it so hard for him to feel the feeling that he most desired to feel? What was stopping him from feeling it? Why was it so hard for him to feel any feeling at all? What was stopping him from feeling anything at all? Was it the id? Was it the ego? It was the ego. With the prostitutes, unlike with the muggers, he had killed for a reason, so it was doubly difficult to find either remorse or regret in the nothingness following the kill. The nothingness was so unsatisfying that he wished for the urge to kill again. He visualized the faces of the prostitutes, wishing for the urge to kill them again. If he could feel the urge, then he could practice inhibiting, suppressing, and eliminating it. That would be a worthy exercise in and of itself. In an attempt to feel the urge, he visualized the prostitutes, all of them, both their faces and their bodies, standing in seductive judgment over him as he lolled upon the floor. He felt nothing. Why did he feel nothing? Where was the urge to kill them again? Feeling nothing and desperate to feel something, he rubbed his fingers over his drooping eyelids, then opened and closed his eyes several times in succession to clarify the images of the prostitutes standing over him. The only thing he felt was a desire to look up their skirts. He clapped his hands over his eyes and shook his head again and again. He laughed, unable to control the impulse even as he knew that it was horribly wrong to laugh. He heard a whimper escape his throat, then a sob. He brightened at the sob. Was it remorse? He could not tell. He tested the sob on the images of the prostitutes. He opened his eyes to stare into the eyes of the prostitutes, one by one, trying to apply the sob to each of them in turn, but finding that he could only apply the sob to himself. Feeling sorry for feeling nothing had indeed turned into feeling sorry for himself, so he knew that it was time to act. He swallowed the sixth, seventh, and eighth tablets. They went down smoothly at the same time that the prostitutes popped, mercifully, out of existence.

Alone in the kitchen, Reid contemplated the urges of the super-ego. The super-ego was perfect. It knew right and wrong. It had always known right and wrong, even during his murder spree, but it had never been strong enough to combat the id and the ego, each bearing its own urges or needs and each acting in allegiance with the other. It was only in the nothingness following the kill, when the urges of the id and the needs of the ego had been satisfied, that the super-ego had been able to fill the void with its own urges. It desired the respite of an end. Having succumbed to the id, the ego had fallen hard and fast, but the super-ego still sought perfection. Dangling perfection, the super-ego lured the ego. The ego found perfection beautiful. The ego found perfection so beautiful that it switched its allegiance from the id to the super-ego. The ego, though it had fallen so hard so fast, still sought perfection. More than anything else, Reid wished to kill himself.

At the behest of his wishes, Reid crawled up from the floor and grabbed the Tylenol box, the gin bottle, and his revolver off the counter. He sat back down, now completely oblivious to dizziness, pain, and nausea. He removed the tablets, all of them, from the box. One by one, he popped them into his mouth and washed them down with gin. It took him ten minutes to finish both the tablets and the gin. Afterwards, he was surprised to find himself awake. Normally, the tablets would have sent him into a drug-induced slumber. This time, the urges of the super-ego and the needs of the ego had been strong enough to keep him awake. He supposed that the coffee had helped as well. Remembering the coffee, he reached up to grab the pot from the counter. He fumbled for the handle, almost tilting the pot and spilling the coffee, before he solidified his grip to maneuver the pot into his lap. He poured the coffee from the pot into the bottle that had held the gin. It was easier to drink the coffee from the bottle than the pot. He downed the coffee, all of it, in a series of gulps. In his stomach, the coffee mixed with the gin and the tablets to exacerbate the dyspepsia. The nausea returned with a vengeance. The nausea would not be denied. Reid closed his eyes, covered his mouth, and clutched his throat, trying, with all his strength, to keep the mixture in his stomach, trying, with all his will, to resist the urge to throw up. He could not resist the urge. Doubling over and bracing himself against a cabinet, he threw up all over himself and the floor. Coming up or going down, the coffee looked the same, as did the gin. The tablets looked almost the same, most of them still intact and still bearing the imprint of their manufacturer upon their surfaces.

Reid stared at the tablets, horrified at their appearance upon the floor. He considered picking them out of the vomit to swallow them again, but he did not trust himself to keep them down. Desperate, he looked in all directions for another box of Tylenol, another bottle of gin, another pot of coffee. Why had he not anticipated that the coffee and the gin would cause him to throw up the tablets? He should have prepared a backup plan. He _had_ prepared a backup plan. He remembered his revolver. Where was it? Had he grabbed it off the counter? Where was it? Here it was, lying on the floor behind him. He turned, plucked the revolver off the floor, and spun the chambers. Immediately, he realized his mistake. He cringed at his own stupidity. Why had he spun the chambers to obscure the location of the bullet? No matter, there was a bullet in there somewhere, and he had all the time in the world to find it. Holding the revolver in one hand, he shoved the barrel up against his forehead in a motion that was more like dropping his forehead down to meet the barrel. His hand shook, so he wrapped his other hand around his wrist to steady himself. Not bothering to breathe another breath, think another thought, or feel another feeling, he pulled the trigger. Nothing. Damn it! Quickly, before he lost his nerve, he rotated the chamber and pulled the trigger again. Nothing. He accepted the nothingness. It was part of the punishment. He rotated the chamber and pulled the trigger a third time. Nothing. He understood the nothingness. It was not part of the punishment. It was symmetry. This time, like that time, the bullet was located in the fourth chamber. This time, unlike that time, the bullet would not be wasted. Why had the bullet been wasted that time? Because he had been a whore that time. That time, he had given in to the urge to live. That time, he should have let the revolver, the other one, God's Will, fire its lone bullet into his forehead. If he had done the right thing that time, then he would not have done so many wrong things since then. This time, he would do the right thing. This time, he would use his own revolver, the one that had never killed anyone, to fire its lone bullet into his own forehead. Unlike himself, his revolver was perfect. After he used his perfect revolver to kill his imperfect self, his imperfect self would be perfect again.

Reid fumbled with his revolver, the super-ego trying to rotate the chamber at the same time that the id tried to halt the rotation. The urge of the id was different from the urge of the super-ego. The super-ego wished to hurt the self. The id wished to save the self. Neither gave a damn about the wishes of the ego.

Trembling, Reid felt the barrel of his revolver waver against his forehead. His hand, the one holding the revolver, was heavy, and his finger, the one pressing the trigger, was numb. His arms, both of them, were sore, so he let them, and their hands, drop, straight down into his lap. Through the haze that filled his mind and the fuzz that filled his senses, Reid heard the clattering of the useless unused gun. He cringed at the sound. It hurt him to realize that he would never be perfect. In chemistry, TOS was more perfect than DOS, but neither strategy was perfect, just as he himself would never be perfect, no matter how many times he fired his perfect revolver into his imperfect forehead.

Under the influence of Tylenol, Reid felt himself falling asleep, the walls tilting, the floor spinning, the light fading. He had neither kept down or thrown up enough tablets. The main, side, and adverse effects of acetaminophen all did their work upon him. He drooped downwards and sideways onto the floor. He hit his head against the floor, but it did not hurt, so he did not wake up to hit it again. On the floor, he lay with his forehead facing the barrel of his revolver, which, being perfect, had sought and found a perfect position. He relaxed, his sleeping face giving no indication of his advanced state of imperfection. He enjoyed a peaceful drug-induced slumber. The slumber was dreamless, because the mind was exhausted. The mind desired the respite of rest, because, once again, it had worked too hard and too fast, analyzing this and analyzing that, and through its analyses, trying and failing to recognize that the whole process - TOS or DOS, TOS _and_ DOS, DOS, _then_ TOS - had been nothing but an expression of deepest remorse.

* * *

Lifetime quota of angst filled? Check. Quota leaky? Check. In conclusion, aaaaaaauuuuuuuggggggghhhhhhh!

Next up: Huh? I have some fledgling theories for why Reid feels the urge to kill, but they are not yet mature enough to be released out of their padded cells in my mind yet.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

On Wednesday afternoon, Reid awakened from a drug-induced slumber, thinking that it was Wednesday morning. Wednesday morning meant that it was time to get up, take a shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and head off to work to catch an UnSub from Philly who had murdered twelve prostitutes in DC over a two-month period. Wednesday held the promise of a short frenetic burst followed by a long relaxing lull. First, solve the case. Then, enjoy the weekend.

From his position on the floor, Reid yawned up at the ceiling. He stretched his arms and legs. He rubbed his eyes. Lying on the floor, flat on his back such that his revolver was no longer pointing at his forehead, Reid thought that he was lying in bed. The main effects of acetaminophen shielded his body from the hardness of the floor, and, although he had managed to wake up from them, the side effects shielded his mind from the harshness of its own failings - first and foremost amongst them, managing to wake up at all. The adverse effects had not yet appeared, and given that Reid was a biological rather than positronic man, it was indeterminate whether they would ever appear. For now, the id had beaten the super-ego. Reid had not kept down enough of the tablets to execute DOS, and he had not thrown up enough of the tablets to execute TOS. The whole process - TOS _or_ DOS, TOS _and_ DOS, DOS, _then_ TOS - had been a perfect storm of nothing.

The familiar ringing of his cell phone sent Reid scrambling up from the floor. He noticed the mess on the floor in the same moment that he noticed the time on the microwave. It was 2 PM. He answered the phone automatically, his mind flash-frozen into a state of shock and panic that prevented it from undertaking voluntary action of any kind.

"Hello?" Reid squeaked into the phone.

"Reid? Where are you?" Hotch asked.

"Home?" Reid answered with another squeak.

He shook his head to clear it, wincing a little as he found his neck sore from shaking his head too many times the night before. He swallowed to clear his throat, wincing again as he found his throat sore from throwing up too much the night before. He looked over the mess on the floor, evaluating the items that littered the linoleum and cringing at the memories that trickled, streamed, and flooded back to him, never to shed a particle of their richness and vibrancy as he retained them in their full glory for life.

"Can I interest you in coming to work today?" Hotch asked.

"I, I'm sorry, Hotch," Reid stammered. "I, I must have overslept...I mean, I did oversleep...I..."

"I know you overslept," Hotch interrupted sharply. "And I think I know why."

"You, you do?" Reid stammered again.

"Yes, and you can come in right now to explain," Hotch said impassively.

"Come in?" Reid licked his lips and breathed faster, now fully, and far less willingly, awake. "Right now?" he heard his heart pounding and his blood rushing through his ears. "On my own?" his mind cleared enough to question the judgment of allowing a serial killer, FBI agent or not, to turn himself in without the oversight of law enforcement personnel.

"Yes, on your own," Hotch said impatiently. "Is there something wrong with you? Are you sick? Is there some other reason why you can't come in today?"

"No, I'm fine, I'm fine," Reid murmured, his voice barely cutting through the cacophonous circus, complete with trumpeting elephants and roaring lions, behind his ears. "Fine, Hotch, fine..." he trailed off, trying and failing to focus upon any individual thought or feeling, reduced, in his current state of shock, panic, and fear, to giving direct answers to direct questions.

"By the way, just to inform you..." Hotch began, then paused.

"What? What is it?" Reid hung onto the stability of the firm authoritative voice.

"We've apprehended the UnSub," Hotch said. "There was another murder last night. Just as you had predicted, the victim was a ginger-haired prostitute, and the UnSub was her former pimp. Based on your profile and story, we were able to identify the UnSub through the victim. Garcia was able to trace him to a hostel in DC. He gave himself up without a fight and confessed as soon as he arrived at the police station. He'll be arraigned after the Thanksgiving weekend. Your profile and story were absolutely accurate. Normally, now that the case has been solved, I wouldn't even ask you to come in, but I really need to talk to you about something."

"Some...Something?" Reid skipped over the information about the UnSub, grasping instead at the knowledge that Hotch, to his immense relief, knew.

"Yes, something," Hotch answered. "Just come in, Reid. It'll be all over in a couple of hours, and then, we can all go home for the weekend," he hung up abruptly, leaving Reid alone in the kitchen, without so much as a dial tone to accompany his conflicting emotions - a linear combination of immense relief and crippling anxiety.

Holding the phone against his ear, Reid stood, frozen in mind and body, for several minutes before springing into action. He dashed down the hallway into the bedroom, then the bathroom, to clean himself up. He took a shower, five minutes at most, and dressed in clean clothes. He brushed his teeth. He shaved his face. He combed his hair. He checked his appearance in the mirror to make sure that he looked alright. He looked alright. Even his eyes looked fresh after a good, fourteen-hour-long, night's sleep.

Back in the kitchen, Reid picked up his messenger bag from the floor. He picked up his coat, also from the floor. He evaluated the other items on the floor, cringing again at the memories that, having trickled, streamed, and flooded back to him, now swirled, twirled, and whirled behind his eyes in a mocking taunting danse macabre with a number of acts that, while not infinite, was exponentially large.

Out of instinct, he stooped down to pick up his revolver. He watched his hand reach for it, but stopped himself before he could touch it. He considered and reconsidered, then continued reaching for it to pick it up and, rather than holster it, stuff it into his messenger bag. He grabbed his credentials off the counter and stuffed them in along with his revolver. The holster looked empty and forlorn without its usual companion, so Reid removed it from his belt and set it gently onto the counter.

On the way out of the apartment, on the way out of the building, on the way down the stairs into the Metro and up the stairs out of the Metro, on the way into, through, and out of the lobby and into, through, and out of the elevator and into, through, and out of the bullpen, the thought never crossed his mind, not even once, that he should not, as the UnSub would say, face the music.

* * *

"When did you go to bed last night?" Hotch paced the room as Reid sat in a chair.

"Um...Maybe a little bit after midnight," Reid fidgeted, agitating his leg and tapping his heel against the floor.

"Are you sure?" Hotch asked.

"Yeah...Pretty sure," Reid blinked rapidly. "I mean, I don't know the exact minute, but I think..."

"So you slept for fourteen hours straight, from midnight to 2 PM?" Hotch continued pacing.

"I took some Tylenol after I got home last night," Reid explained. "Tylenol always makes me drowsy, so..."

"When did you get home last night?" Hotch asked.

"Um...Around ten," Reid grabbed his leg to stop the fidgeting.

"Are you sure?" Hotch asked.

"Yeah, I remember checking the time as soon as I got home," Reid checked his watch involuntarily.

"You're lying," Hotch stopped pacing, folded his arms across his chest, and glared angrily from the opposite side of the desk.

"What? I'm not lying, Hotch! I'm really not!" Reid looked Hotch in the eye, imploring his boss to believe him on an issue that was _not_ one of the issues that he had recently lied about. "I really did get home around ten. I really did go to bed...uh, sleep...a little bit after midnight."

"You know that Garcia has been analyzing CCTV footage from the areas of the crime scenes," Hotch changed the subject.

"Yes," Reid nodded. "She's been looking for the UnSub that way, checking to see if the same person appeared in CCTV footage from multiple locations in the hours before the crimes were committed."

"I know that this is none of my business, Reid," Hotch changed the subject again. "Well, actually, it _is_ my business, because I'm your boss in the Bureau, but let me ask you one question, as a friend and not as your boss. Do you have a habit of soliciting prostitutes in your spare time?"

"What? No!" Reid stared up in wide-eyed dismay, his face flushing and unflushing as the color rose and fell in cycles of unnaturally high frequency.

"Calm down, Reid," Hotch put up his hands and softened his tone. "I believe you. In fact, I would never believe otherwise. But this brings us back to the issue of the CCTV footage. Do you have any idea what I'm getting at?"

"You saw me in the CCTV footage," Reid whispered, dropping his eyes into his lap as he waited for an allegation to affirm or deny.

"On Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday," Hotch leaned forwards over the desk. "Specifically, on Saturday afternoon, Sunday afternoon, Monday evening, and Tuesday evening. On Monday and Tuesday evenings, your behavior was particularly interesting. You walked up and down one street multiple times and spoke to several prostitutes along the way. You did the same thing on several different streets within Ryan Jonas's, or Ginger Ale's, area of operation. I'm curious, Reid. Would you consider your behavior to be fishing or hunting? Did you end up finding your prey?"

"I, I...Uh...I, I..." Reid wheezed through a set of constricting bands around his chest, his eyelids fluttering and his lips quivering as he prepared to confess to multiple acts of premeditated murder.

Now that the moment had come, he desperately wanted to tell the truth. He wanted to tell the whole story, all of it, all about the old man and the muggers and the prostitutes, all about intent and motive, all about the urges of the id, the urges of the super-ego, and the intellectual and emotional needs of the ego. He wanted to tell Hotch everything that had happened, everything that he had done, so Hotch could arrest him, here and now, and take him to a place where he would not be able to act upon his inexplicable uncontrollable urges. He wanted to admit that he was a psychopath, an intraspecies predator incapable of genuine emotions and unable to function in normal societies. He wanted to unleash a torrent of words to express all his terrifying thoughts and feelings, but the bands blocked off the channels of communication. Every time he opened his mouth, the bands tightened until he gasped for breath, unable to suck enough air into his lungs, unable to spew out the meager volume that he did suck in. He wondered, briefly, if this was how the prostitutes, his victims, had felt as he had strangled them, manually, in the process of overkill that had smeared the forest over the trees. As soon as he wondered this, he began to savor the sensation. He deserved to feel this feeling. This was the feeling that he deserved to feel for the rest of his life. He hoped that the rest of his life would not drag on and on and on, like one of his insufferable fact-spewing tirades. Having broken the social contract, he hoped that the rest of his life would be solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. Maybe he could assume a cold indifferent demeanor, utterly devoid of remorse, so the judge or the jury would hand down the death penalty. Afterwards, he could dismiss the public defender and drop the appeals to hurry the process along. He tried to recall whether DC had the death penalty. He recalled that DC did not have the death penalty. The recollection was extremely disappointing to him. Why had he not killed someone in Maryland or Virginia? Both of those states had the death penalty. Maybe he could kill someone today, right now, sitting in an office in Quantico, Virginia. Who could he kill? There was no one for him to kill. There was no one except for Hotch, standing in the office with him. He couldn't kill Hotch. He didn't want to kill Hotch. He doubted that he'd be able to kill Hotch. Hotch would shoot him as soon as he tried to shoot Hotch. Maybe he could try to shoot Hotch, or at least pretend to try, and Hotch would have to shoot him in self-defense. Hotch would shoot him through the heart, straight through the heart, as he had been shot in his second dream of the frail old man. That was called suicide-by-cop. Hotch wouldn't miss. What if Hotch missed? What if he survived? Would attempted murder of an FBI agent be enough to get him the death penalty in Virginia? He didn't think that it would. Maybe he could confess to plotting the murders of all his teammates, the whole BAU. It wouldn't be a lie, not a total lie at least. He had thought about killing JJ, not once, not twice, but many times since JJ had left the Bureau. He had thought about killing Hotch, just now, and he was still thinking about it, still considering it, still deliberating the pros and cons. Why was he still thinking about killing people? What was wrong with him?

"I'm guessing that you didn't find the blonde prostitute, the auburn-haired prostitute, or the ginger-haired prostitute before the UnSub got to them," Hotch sat down on the desk and stared expectantly at Reid.

"No...I mean, yes...I mean, no, I did find them," Reid choked out the words as he shook his head, wincing both at the temporary soreness that afflicted his own neck and throat and at the terminal soreness that had afflicted the necks and throats of the prostitutes.

"Oh, you did find them," Hotch said. "But, unfortunately for the victims, you happened to find the wrong ones? Did you wander the streets all night, looking for prostitutes who fit the victomology in order to warn them about the UnSub? Were you hoping to get to them before the UnSub got to them? Is that why you stayed up all night last night and the previous night? I saw you yesterday, Reid. I noticed your appearance. You were wearing the same clothes from the day before, and you hadn't shaved. I'm a profiler. These details are obvious to me."

"No, you don't understand," Reid shook his head again. "I went to warn them, then to k..." he coughed to catch his breath.

He felt himself breathing faster and faster, hyperventilating to compensate for the bands that squeezed tighter and tighter with each laborious breath. The sensation was more like death by pressing than death by strangling. He clutched at the armrests to keep his hands from trembling. His fingers twitched, as did a muscle under his left eye. One second, he felt too hot, the heat burning his face. The next second, he felt too cold, the cold also burning. Each second lasted a minute as the physical sensations developed a primitive mind of their own to rob the higher mind of coherent thought, feeling, and speech.

"I know what you've been doing," Hotch sighed grimly.

"You do?" Reid shoved his hands under the desk to hide their trembling and twitching. "You do," he nodded in relief that he didn't have to say the words that he had most wanted and most feared to say. "I know it's wrong, Hotch. It's _so_ wrong. I've always known that it's wrong. But I did it anyway, and I don't know _why_ I did it. I don't know why I _wanted_ to do it. I can't figure it out. I think there's something wrong with me. There's got to something wrong with me," he stopped at a shooting pain in his chest, then another and another and another, the shooting pains pairing off nicely with the constricting bands to accompany his confessions.

"Calm down, Reid," Hotch comforted him. "There's nothing _wrong_ with you. A few missteps on a single case do not translate into a fatal flaw. In a way, I can understand and appreciate what you've been doing. Although I disagree with your methods, and although, as your boss and the head of this team, I have to put a stop to them, I know that your intentions were good. In your position, I might have done the same thing myself."

"What?" Reid gawked in horror.

"You've been trying to solve the case on your own," Hotch explained the situation as he understood it. "You visited the crime scenes on your own. That's what you did on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. You constructed the victimology and profile on your own. Based on the victimology and profile, you devised a story that turned out to be amazingly accurate. That's what you did in your office all this week, with the door locked and the blinds closed. I don't know if it was luck or genius that let you in on all the details that everyone else missed and all the ideas that no one else thought of. With the victomology, profile, and story in hand, you patrolled the streets, looking for the same types of prostitutes that the UnSub was looking for in order to warn them about the UnSub. That's what you did on Monday and Tuesday evenings. You started looking right after work. You continued looking all night. On Tuesday morning, you didn't go home to change or shave. On Wednesday morning, this morning, you went home, fell asleep, and overslept into the afternoon. All this, everything that I've described, has taken its toll on you. I can tell, Reid. You look terrible. You look like you haven't eaten or slept in days. You've spent so much time and effort trying to solve the case that your dedication is bordering on obsession. You know that it's wrong to do this, both to yourself and to the team. You said it yourself. You know that it's wrong, but you don't know why you did it. I think I know why, and I can explain it to you, if you're willing to listen."

"Um..." Reid blinked away a formation of spots, some black and some colorful, that flew across his field of view.

"You've been trying to solve the case on your own, because you no longer trust the team," Hotch continued. "You no longer trust the team to solve the cases as a team. It all started with that case in Indiana. You missed the plane, and I left you behind. You didn't participate in the case. Without you, we failed to solve the case. Once we got back, you looked over the case file, including the information that we had gathered in the field, and you solved the case in your head. With you, we solved the case. Is there a correlation? Maybe there is. It's very likely that we wouldn't solve as many cases without you as we would with you. That's why the BAU is lucky to have you, but you've got to remember that the BAU operates as a team. We're a team, and we're always going to be a team, so we've got to act like one. In the early days, profilers used to travel around the country on their own, dropping in on local police departments to conduct investigations that were more-or-less individual battles of profiler vs. UnSub. Remember Max Ryan and the Keystone Killer? Remember how Ryan could hardly stand to work with the team? Ryan was used to working on his own, and so were Rossi and Gideon, to lesser extents. But the days of solitary profilers are over. We work as a team now, and on a team, there's no place for individual..."

"Stop!" Reid interrupted, slapping his hand upon the desk in a gesture that he had never used before. "It's not like that. It's not like that at all. This has nothing to do with the team. You misunderstood me. I thought you knew, but you don't. What I was trying to say..." he paused, sucking in one last breath before forcing himself to say the words. "I killed them," he confessed. "The blonde prostitute, the auburn-haired prostitute, the ginger-haired prostitute...I killed them. I killed them all," he looked Hotch in the eye, imploring his boss to believe him on an issue that _was_ one of the issues that he had recently lied about.

The confession felt good. It felt right. It alleviated his physical sensations and returned to him a sense of physical well-being that he had not felt since he had killed the blonde prostitute on Saturday afternoon. He gazed steadily at Hotch, waiting for Hotch to _ex_plode or _im_plode, he didn't know which.

"This has got to stop, Reid," Hotch covered and uncovered his eyes. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. _You_ killed them? _You_ killed them all? I can't believe I'm hearing these words come out of your mouth. You're much too rational to think like this. Where's your logic? Your reason? What are you thinking? That just because you didn't find the victims in time, that you contributed to their deaths? That you killed them? Let me tell you this, Reid, and I'm telling you, not asking you, to believe me. You couldn't have stopped the UnSub. If you had found the victims in time and warned them about the UnSub, then the UnSub would've found other victims to kill. The victims he ended up killing were not the only prostitutes who fit the victimology. Felicia Hayes, the twelfth victim, was the only one who was special. She was the prostitute with the ginger hair as _you_ had predicted, who was the love interest of the UnSub as _you_ had suggested, whose murder would've driven the UnSub into a disorganized crime spree as _you_ had guessed. You haven't seen the latest information, so you don't know that the UnSub didn't even bother to pose the body this time. He killed the object of his affection, and he didn't even pose her body. This was the end of his organized crime spree. Who knows what he would've gone on to do if we hadn't identified him using _your_ profile and _your_ story? It was _your_ profile and _your_ story that solved the case. Think about it, Reid. First, think about what you're saying. Then, think about whether it matches up with the facts."

"The UnSub's name..." Reid struggled to speak, feeling his body spiral out of control as the constricting bands and shooting pains returned, attacking him with such intensity that he could not spit out the one piece of information specific enough to implicate him in the murders.

"Nathan Christopher Davis," Hotch filled in the blank. "Like the victim, Davis is from Philadelphia. He was a musician who played in a band and did some pimping on the side. He arrived in DC the first week of October, moved from hostel to hostel as he overstayed the maximum duration at each location, fished and hunted for prostitutes to kill until he finally found his way back to the one who had unknowingly set off the entire chain of events. When we confronted him, he was distraught, a total mess. During the interrogation, he admitted to beating, slashing, and strangling the victims, but he claimed that he couldn't remember the exact details of the crimes. He couldn't articulate his motive or intent, instead depending on us, the interrogators, to speak for him. He could only provide yes-or-no answers to leading questions. He kept repeating Felicia's name over and over and over again. He was shocked that he had killed her. He was crying. He was hysterical. We left him alone in the interrogation room for a few minutes, and he tried to slit his wrists with the handcuffs. Luckily, the psychiatrist was there to sedate him. He's been put on suicide watch. He's going to require a full psychiatric evaluation before any legal proceedings can go forwards."

"But he...The last three victims...I k..." Reid coughed to drive away the heart palpitations that had started as soon as Hotch had snatched away the only evidence against him.

He felt the urge to cough and cough and cough, to cough up a congested pressure that bubbled up from deep within his lungs and pumped his heart into overdrive. At the same time, he felt the urge to speak. He tried and failed to do both. His mind screamed at him to stop coughing, to start speaking. Why was he unable to speak? Normally, he was so good at speaking when everyone wanted him to shut up. Now that he needed to speak, he couldn't do it. Why couldn't he do it? Was it because he didn't really want to do it? It was! But he had to speak! He couldn't bear to continue this charade. So far, Hotch had misinterpreted all his words and actions to construct a profile and story that were both totally coherent and totally wrong. He needed Hotch to know the truth, but he couldn't get the words out of his mouth before the urge to cough overwhelmed the urge to speak. In desperation, he gazed intently at Hotch, willing Hotch to see through his eyes into the truth behind them. He could tell that he was getting nowhere. Hotch couldn't see him for what he was, and suddenly, in the literal blink of an eye, he couldn't see Hotch either. Had Hotch gotten up? Walked away? Left the room? Why couldn't he see Hotch? He turned his head in all directions, looking for Hotch in the curtain of blackness that had draped itself over his field of view. Where was Hotch? There he was! Hotch was still there, sitting in the same position on the desk, staring down with the same expression upon his face. In a small circle of light, through a tunnel in the blackness, Reid saw and heard Hotch speaking to him, but he couldn't understand a word that was said.

"Don't you ever say that again!" Hotch snapped angrily. "I don't ever want to hear it again, Reid. _You_ didn't kill anyone. The only thing that _you_ did wrong was isolating yourself from the team. I confess that it's partly my fault," he sighed, standing up to pace the room again. "I shouldn't have left you behind on that case in Indiana. I should've let you work with Rossi and Morgan on the negotiation with the pimp. I should've let you participate more actively on the raids, at least since your knee healed. I should've let you do your job. At some point, my priority went from letting you do your job to keeping you safe from harm. You've had a lot of close calls, but that's not a good excuse for my behavior. To tell you the truth, my reasons were selfish. After Gideon left, I didn't think that the BAU could afford to lose another brilliant one-of-a-kind mind. You and Gideon...The two of you are the most creative thinkers that the BAU has ever had. This case is a prime example of why we need minds like yours in the BAU. Who else could've come up with the profile of the UnSub? You did. Gideon could have. Who else could've done it? Maybe Dave? I wouldn't guarantee it. Dave's got all the experience in the world, and I respect for him for it, but his mind works better in reality than in fantasy. He's more practical than imaginative. You and Gideon...You two live on a different plane from the rest of us. Now that Gideon is gone, we need _you_..." he stopped at the sound of uncontrollable coughing that expanded to fill the room.

Reid pushed his chair away from his desk, doubling over and giving in to his coughing fit. As he coughed, he clutched at his throat, trying to suppress the heart palpitations that bounced around his chest in time with the images of the prostitutes that bounced around his head. Remembering that the heart was located in the chest rather than the throat, he clutched at his chest, tapping it to drive his heart out of its frightening arrhythmia. He wondered if he was having a heart attack. It didn't seem right that he, young and healthy, would be having a heart attack, but he remembered that the night before, he had tried to kill himself by taking 100 tablets of Tylenol and drinking a whole bottle of gin and a whole pot of coffee, but that he had thrown up all the gin and all the coffee along with most of the tablets in his failure to kill himself. The vomiting, combined with the lack of eating, must have caused an electrolyte imbalance that was now causing a heart attack. He wondered if he would die of a heart attack, here and now, before he got the chance to kill, try to kill, or pretend to try to kill, anyone in Maryland or Virginia to receive the death penalty that he deserved. Believing that he was dying of a heart attack, he realized that he didn't want to die of a heart attack. The tablets, gin, and coffee would have been one way to go, and the revolver that he no longer considered his own would have been another, but the heart attack did not feel right to him. It was the wrong exit strategy. Suddenly, he remembered that people suffering from panic attacks, especially their first panic attacks, often mistook the symptoms of a panic attack for those of a heart attack, the mistake often causing them to show up, unnecessarily, at the emergency room. Maybe he was not having a heart attack. Maybe he was having a panic attack. As soon as he thought this, he hoped that he was having a panic attack, because panic attacks, unlike heart attacks, did not kill people, and he, although he had thought and felt otherwise last night, earlier today, and just this minute, did not really wish to die. He was probably having a panic attack. He was definitely having a panic attack. The symptoms fit the condition. The data fit the theory. The behavior fit the profile. Unlike Hotch, Reid, with his brilliant one-of-a-kind mind, had constructed a profile and story that were both totally coherent and totally right.

From a vast distance, Reid heard a voice, then two, then three. One was Hotch. Two were deep. The third was more than a voice.

Reid felt a hand upon his shoulder. He was cold, so the hand burned him with its heat. He wondered whose hand it was, so burning hot upon his shoulder that he wanted to fling it off, dip it in water, and hear the water fizz with steam. The burning was like an electric current that traveled through his flesh to jolt his heart into a steady healthy rhythm. The palpitations subsided. The coughing fit tapered off to a few stray wheezes. Reid passed his sleeve over his face to wipe away the sweat that had darted out of his brow and the tears that had darted out of his eyes. Feeling better, he opened his eyes and looked up into the honey blonde hair, soft feminine features, and big beautiful blue eyes of Jennifer Jareau.

"Spence, you OK?" JJ leaned over him as he leaned forwards in his chair.

"Yeah..." Reid stifled the last vestige of a wheeze. "I'm fine...I choked...I choked on my own saliva...I think it was."

"I know how that happens," JJ nodded. "That happens to me more than I'd care to admit. Good thing it hasn't happened during a press conference...yet," she crossed her fingers.

"What are you doing here?" Reid blinked up at her.

"I had the afternoon off, so I thought that I'd visit before everyone went home for the weekend," JJ said. "Last time I was here, I didn't even get a chance to come up. I had to rush home after work, so Will could go off with his buddies for his monthly boys' night out. I don't know what he does on his playdates. I don't really want to know," she rolled her eyes.

"Oh..." Reid nodded weakly. "So that's why you didn't...I mean, I didn't get to see you last time."

"I hope you got to see and taste the cookies though," JJ glanced sideways at Morgan standing in the open doorway of Reid's office. "But just in case you didn't, I brought you something better this time," she gestured for Hotch to hand her a platter of fancy cupcakes. "I know you want some," she passed the platter under his face, enticing him with the sugary chocolatey aroma of cake and cream. "Here, take some," she held the platter under his nose.

With a small smile, Reid took a cupcake, then two, then three, as JJ laughed, Morgan snickered, and Hotch smirked. After not eating for two days, he was extremely hungry. He felt both light-headed and physically light, as if he had lost several pounds, which he probably had. The sensation was not entirely unpleasant.

"Derek?" JJ offered the platter to Morgan.

"Don't mind if I do," Morgan took a cupcake.

"Hotch?" JJ turned to Hotch.

"Saved the best for last?" Hotch took a cupcake. "Can you give us a minute?" he looked at JJ, then Morgan.

"Sure, no problem," JJ got up to follow Morgan out of the office. "By the way, Reid, I really like what you've done with the place," she gestured to include the whole room. "No decorations, just the way I like it!" she gave him an A-OK as she backed into the corridor.

"We'll be in the bullpen, Reid," Morgan poked his head back in. "Remember to come down to finish the cupcakes. We'll save a dozen or two for you," he waved and disappeared from view.

"OK," Reid waved at the air.

"Are you alright, Reid?" Hotch frowned. "Are you really alright? You don't look well."

"I'm fine," Reid reassured his boss. "I'm fine, really I'm fine. Like I said, I choked. It happens all the time."

"You don't have any other symptoms?" Hotch asked. "For a minute there, you looked like you were having a heart attack. I was on the verge of calling the paramedics when JJ and Morgan came in."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Reid repeated. "A coughing fit always looks worse than it is. Did you know that a cough produces a g-force of 3.5, while a sneeze produces a g-force of 3? That's three times the gravitational acceleration on Earth and comparable to the g-forces experienced on rollercoasters."

"You really are fine," Hotch remarked. "About our talk today...What we were talking about before you started coughing...You understand why we had to have that talk? I know it must have felt like I was interrogating you, like I was interrogating an UnSub, and I apologize for that. After I saw the CCTV footage and put two and two together, I admit that I was very angry with you."

"It's alright, Hotch," Reid said. "You were right to be angry with me. I shouldn't have been doing what I was doing. I guess I didn't think that you'd catch me in the act. I swear that I do still trust the team. I don't really want to solve the cases on my own. That would be much too stressful. I don't think I could do it. It's just that this was the first case I chose, and I really wanted to see it through. But I know that I went about it the wrong way. I'm really sorry about that, about everything," he bit his lip and looked into the distance, at the blank undecorated wall beyond Hotch. "I promise not to do it again," he shifted his eyes to focus upon Hotch.

"And I promise to let you do your job," Hotch said. "Next time we go on a raid, you're coming along, whether you like it or not."

"Thanks, Hotch," Reid nodded shyly.

"Just one more thing before I let you out for the weekend," Hotch said. "Do you remember what you said earlier? About you and the UnSub and the victims?"

"Yeah," Reid looked down and fiddled with his shirt sleeve.

"I don't ever want to hear you say that again," Hotch said. "I'm serious about this. Don't ever say it again. Never again. Got it?"

"Got it," Reid nodded, finding his neck no less sore when he nodded than when he shook his head.

"Good," Hotch tapped his fingers against the desk. "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

"Nothing much," Reid said. "Looking forward to spending a quiet weekend at home, actually. After all the excitement of the case...Maybe it was all a little too exciting for me..."

"I'd take it easy if I were you," Hotch advised. "Try not to think about the cases. Don't take any case files home with you. Just enjoy the weekend, so you can be refreshed and ready to jump back into it on Monday."

"Yeah, I will," Reid looked up with a small smile. "Thanks, Hotch. You have a good weekend too."

"I'm going to have my hands full with Jack," Hotch smiled at the thought of his son. "I made the mistake of promising him that I'd take him somewhere snowy so we could go sledding this weekend. With this recent warm spell, it looks like I'll be doing quite a bit of driving."

"It's been snowing up in New York all week," Reid said. "Up in Buffalo, near Niagara Falls. Maybe you could take Jack there to see the snow and the falls. The falls freeze up during the winter, but I don't think it's cold enough yet."

"A lot of driving, a lot of driving," Hotch mumbled on his way to the door. "Join us in the bullpen for cupcakes and Cristal?"

"Yeah, in a little bit," Reid said. "I've got to clean up this mess first," he pointed at the stack of case files that he had knocked over during his coughing fit.

Hotch nodded, waved, and stepped out. Reid listened for his footsteps to fade down the corridor. He resisted the urge to close and lock the door. The blinds were already closed, so he resisted the urge to open them to look into the bullpen. He imagined the team standing around, eating cupcakes, laughing, relaxing, turning off their cell phones to avoid the dark criminal netherworld that constantly threatened to snatch away their weekends.

In his imagination, JJ sat on his desk, the one that had formerly been his, while he sat at her desk, the one that had formerly been hers and was now his. He visualized her face and was happy to find that he did not wish to hurt her. He imagined her touch and was happier to find that he still loved her. It was alright. He had acted out all his negative emotions and aggressive impulses upon the old man, the muggers, the prostitutes, and himself, so he knew that he would never wish to hurt her again. Now, it was alright to love her. His love, unlike the love of Nathan for Felicia, was a metronome, beating out the even predictable rhythm of a calm peaceful happiness. He was content to let it beat on and on and on, with no arrhythmia of recompense to mar its perfect programmable tempo.

Reid programmed the tempo to that of rushing falling water. He bent over to pick up the case files on the floor. As he gathered up the crime scene photos, forensics results, and witness reports, he had three thoughts, one each concerning the UnSub, the UnSub's JJ, and the next UnSub.

Concerning the UnSub, Reid thought about himself. Under interrogation, it was not uncommon for criminals to confess to crimes that they had not committed. If the UnSub could make a false confession, then so could he.

Concerning the UnSub's JJ, Reid thought about JJ. She was safe, and he was content. In a way, it had all been worth it.

Concerning the next UnSub, Reid thought about himself. He needed to live, not through the urges of the subconscious id or the urges of the subconscious super-ego, but through the needs of the conscious ego. He needed to live, because the team needed him. He had a job to do. He had a life to live. First, solve the case. Then, enjoy the weekend. Afterwards, choose the next case. For the next case, Reid had a profile in mind. The profile was novel, so it did not yet have a name. Reid named it "The Fallen Angel".

* * *

Happy Holidays, All!

Next up: The Fallen Angel


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

On Wednesday, at home, Reid cleaned up the mess on the kitchen floor. He picked up the tablets, the gin bottle, and the coffee pot, and dumped them together into a small black garbage bag. Thinking twice, he retrieved the gin bottle and the coffee pot, leaving only the tablets at the bottom of the bag. He washed out the bottle and the pot and placed them on the dishrack to dry. He didn't throw away the pot, because he needed it to make coffee in the morning, and he didn't throw away the bottle, because he liked it.

With only the tablets inside, the garbage bag looked wrong and felt wrong. Without being empty, it looked empty and felt empty. It appeared to be something that it was not. Reid didn't like things appearing to be other than what they were. He took action.

Shaking the bag, he maneuvered the tablets into one corner. He pulled the bag taut over a mortar and pestle and slid the tablets down the plastic into the mortar. Using the pestle, he crushed the tablets into irregular pieces and ground the pieces into a fine powder. It took him ten minutes to do it, and the repetitive activity, which would normally have bored him out of his mind, was relaxing after the excitement of the past few days.

Once the tablets had been pulverized into powder, it was time for dissolution and disposal. Reid transferred the powder to a tupperware container. In another tupperware container, he heated water in the microwave. Spoonful by spoonful, he added boiling water to the powder and stirred the suspension until the powder dissolved. For the briefest fraction of a second, he considered drinking the solution, but the thought passed as quickly as it had come, leaving no evidence in his mind that it had ever existed. Unbeknownst to himself, his memory was imperfect when he wanted it to be so.

With a touch of reluctance, Reid poured the solution down the drain. It flowed away with the same bittersweet flavor that would have been its taste had he drunk it. In solution, medication went in tasteless, went down bitter, and came up sweet. Even though he had not drunk it, the solution left an aftertaste on his tongue. The aftertaste, intense but welcome, calmed the storm behind his eyes. For the first time in a week, Reid felt like himself. He didn't feel like the person who had killed six people, and had tried and failed to kill a seventh, in the past seven days. That person could not go on living. How could he live with himself, knowing the depths to which he had sunk? How could he live with himself, not knowing the depths to which he had yet to sink? Reid could think of only one way. He could sink further still. He could choose to sink further still. Having sunk to such a depth, would it be such a big deal for him to sink further still?

Reid felt like himself, so he didn't feel like that person. He felt like the person who could go on living, because his only purpose in life was to understand why he had done it all. After he understood, he could inform others, passing on the knowledge to criminals and criminal investigators alike. Criminals could use the knowledge to stop themselves. Criminal investigators could use the knowledge to stop the criminals who could not stop themselves. Behind the practicality of helping others, Reid recognized the practicality of helping himself. After he understood, he could use the knowledge to stop himself. That would be a triumph, a personal one, greater than anything else he could possibly achieve. Behind all the practicalities, Reid recognized a singular idealism. He was a romantic. He wanted to understand for the sake of understanding. He imagined a day on which he would wake up and know the answer to the question that had no answer. He didn't know whether the day would come to him, or whether he would have to bring the day about. All he knew was that he was no longer satisfied with answering the question that had no answer. Now, he wanted to know the answer.

How had it come to this? He didn't know, but he meant to find out, any way he could.

On Thursday, at home, Reid ate an entire bag of tortilla chips and an entire jar of salsa while watching football. It was the first time that he had watched football since the Superbowl party several years ago and the second time that he had watched football since the Redskins game even more years ago. This time, he watched it in the way that he had always wanted to watch it, as an intricate chess/war game in which the coaches of the opposing teams moved their players around the field in an infinitude of plays that branched out from the game plan into a tree whose individual branches led to success or failure, the ultimate success or failure of winning or losing the game being a linear combination of all the branches that the coaches traversed during the game. Reid believed that weaker teams could beat stronger teams if only the coaches were smart enough to design the right plays. He didn't care about the players who executed the plays. When designing the plays, as long as the coaches took into account the heights, weights, girths, limb lengths, and all other biometrics of all the players on both teams, then there was no reason why the players couldn't execute the plays. This way, winning or losing was determined by the plays rather than the players.

Sitting on the couch in front of the TV, Reid developed a set of equations that he converted into algorithms for designing and implementing plays in a simulation that was far more sophisticated, powerful, and all-encompassing than Madden NFL. He typed up the results, both the mathematical analysis and the computational algorithm that Garcia could follow to code the program in a language of her own choosing. The intellectual exercise, more engaging than any of the games, occupied the entire day. At the end of the day, Reid was disappointed that the Patriots had predictably beaten the Lions and the Saints had predictably beaten the Cowboys and the Jets had predictably beaten the Bengals. By then, he had designed all the right plays, but he had not been able to transmit them through the TV screen for implementation upon the field.

On Friday, at home, Reid wrote an account of the case. He entitled the paper "The Fisher-Hunter". In it, he presented the chain of reasoning that had led him to the victimology, profile, and story. He devoted a special case study to the final murder, detailing how the UnSub had killed the object of his affection, explaining the psychological state of the UnSub before, during, and after the murder, and posing the question of whether the murder could have been avoided. Could the UnSub have avoided killing the object of his affection? Here was a question to which he knew the answer, but in the paper, he left the question unanswered.

On Saturday, at home, Reid nearly gave in to an impulse to confess his sins. The impulse came upon him as he was brushing his teeth in the morning. He spit out the toothpaste, ran into the bedroom to pick up his cell phone, and nearly called Hotch, then Morgan. His finger was on the dial button when he remembered that Hotch had probably taken Jack to go sledding in the snow. His finger was again on the dial button when he remembered that Morgan had probably flown off to Chicago to visit his mother and sisters. He had no choice but to take his finger off the dial button, put down his cell phone, and run back into the bathroom to finish brushing his teeth.

In the bathroom, he told himself that he didn't want to disturb Hotch and Morgan during the weekend. In the mirror, his face told him that he was afraid to confess his sins. What if they didn't believe his confessions? What if they misinterpreted his confessions as hallucinations? Hallucinations were a sign of psychosis. All these years, ever since they had found out about the potential, his colleagues had been waiting for the psychosis to rear its ugly head. Every year that the psychosis did not manifest itself was a year closer to the time when it would. Was that why Hotch didn't let him go on raids anymore? It didn't seem right that he got to go on more raids in his second year than in his sixth year in the BAU. Did Hotch think that he was becoming increasingly unstable? Had Hotch lied to him? Maybe Hotch wasn't trying to keep him safe from others. Maybe Hotch was trying to keep others safe from him. Clearly, he was a danger to others. He knew that. That was what he wanted to confess, but he was afraid to confess it, because he was afraid that his colleagues, instead of believing that he was dangerous because he was a murderer, would believe that he was dangerous because he was crazy. The distinction was important to him. He didn't want people to think that he was crazy. He didn't want Hotch to pressure him, maybe even force him, into getting a psychiatric evaluation. What if Hotch banned him from doing his job until he got a psychiatric evaluation? He admitted that he was afraid to get a psychiatric evaluation. He was afraid, because, while he was still certain that he would pass, he was no longer certain that he would pass with flying colors. Once again, the distinction was important to him.

Besides Hotch and Morgan, there was one other person to whom Reid would have liked to confess his sins. In an ideal world, Reid would have liked to confess his sins to JJ. In the real world, he knew that such an event, if it ever occurred, could only occur on the same day on which he finally understood why he had done it all. For the time being, he made do by writing another account of the case. Again, he entitled the paper "The Fisher-Hunter", but this time, he told the truth and left no question unanswered.

On Sunday, at home, Reid watched football to pass the time. He was becoming quite a fan, but not of the Redskins.

* * *

On Monday, at work, Reid formulated a plan for the rest of his life. From now on, he would kill people in fantasy rather than in reality. Whenever he got bored, especially when he got bored at work, he would think about killing people - the specific types of people that he wanted to kill (victomology), the specific methods that he wanted to use (M.O.), the specific reasons, both intellectual and emotional, why he wanted to kill the people that he wanted to kill, use the methods that he wanted to use, or both (motive), and the specific psychology behind his aberrant thoughts, feelings, and non-behaviors (profile). In fantasy, he would kill as many people as he wanted to kill. In reality, he would kill no one, not even himself.

Through the process, he would come up with a variety of profiles, known and unknown. The unknown ones, like "The Fisher-Hunter" and "The Fallen Angel", would add to his knowledge of the field. The known ones, like "The Novice Killer", would give him new takes on old ideas. Previously, he had come up with profiles as a profiler. Now, he would come up with profiles as a killer. The change in perspective made all the difference in the world. On one level, it was like the philosopher emerging from Plato's Cave to see reality for what it was rather than as projections upon the wall. On another level, it was like the psychiatrist descending into psychopathy to know what it was like to be the mind that he studied.

With the master plan in place, Reid formulated a plan for the current case. For the current case, he had chosen the case to match the profile. This particular case screening method had both advantages and disadvantages. The advantage was that he knew the profile. The disadvantage was that no one could know that he knew. Last Wednesday, Hotch had lectured him about teamwork. If he were to present the appearance that he had taken the lecture to heart, then he couldn't very well spoonfeed the profile to his colleagues this time as he had done last time. For this case, no matter how painful it was or became, he would have to play dumb.

In the Round Table Room, before he began the case briefing, Reid reviewed the tenets of playing dumb. He had never considered them before, but now that he had, he realized, in his brilliance, that the tenets of playing dumb were almost identical to the tenets of teamwork. He could achieve both ends with the same means. In idiomatic form, that was called "killing two birds with one stone".

"In the past two weeks, five bodies have been recovered from the Niagara River downstream of Niagara Falls," Reid began the case briefing. "In each case..." he stopped abruptly, clearing his throat to disguise the stoppage.

Standing at the front of the room, he waited for a response from his colleagues before continuing. He bit his lip to shut himself up. Here he was, only five seconds into the case briefing, and he had almost bungled the plan. In the momentary silence, he reviewed the tenets again. Tenet Number 1: Be Slow.

"Niagara Falls?" Morgan broke the silence. "_Down_stream?" he glanced sideways at Rossi sitting beside him.

"Were these the people who decided that it was a good idea to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel?" Rossi asked.

"Tasteless!" Prentiss wrinkled her nose at Rossi.

"Don't shoot the messenger," Rossi defended himself. "It's not my fault that people do this to themselves. Going over Niagara Falls in a barrel is a well-known stunt, like jumping over the Grand Canyon on a motorcycle. In the old days, the homemade barrel-like contraption was the vehicle of choice, but now, people are getting dumb and dumber, trying to go over in kayaks, jet skis, and nothing."

"Do they die?" Garcia asked, curiosity overruling squeamishness at the exciting prospect.

"50-50," Rossi replied. "So far, about half of the barrel rollers have survived. The kayak guy didn't make it, and neither did the jet ski guy. The guy who jumped over Horseshoe Falls without a flotation device actually survived with only a few cuts and bruises. He wasn't the only one who survived a suicide plunge."

"How do you know so much about this subject?" Prentiss asked.

"I've got friends in upstate New York," Rossi said. "Used to go fishing and hunting up there before I came back here. Had to talk about something while waiting for the fish to bite."

"Ah, the good life of Sir David Rossi before his evil stepmother forced him to rejoin the BAU," Garcia commented.

"Evil stepmother? Isn't she more of an evil step_sister_?" Prentiss frowned, considering the issue with the gravitas that it warranted. "Unless we're talking about someone other than Section Chief Erin Strauss?"

"Shut it, Rossi," Morgan warned. "You don't want to set Reid off on another discussion of fishing and hunting. I don't want to hear about the predator-prey simulation again."

"How about we focus on the case?" Hotch interrupted the post-holiday merrymaking. "Reid?" he prompted Reid to continue.

Reid nodded, happy for the interruption to continue. Continuing with the case briefing would take his mind off all the information that he wanted to share about people plunging over waterfalls, both those at Niagara Falls and those at other waterfall hotspots such as Yosemite National Park. He wanted to do a kinematic analysis of the possible plunges, calculating the duration of free-fall, impact velocity, and horizontal displacement for a human body, hammer, and feather without neglecting air resistance. In the realm of waterfalls, Niagara Falls was nice, but Reid preferred tall narrow waterfalls shaped like ponytails. His favorite waterfall was Yosemite Falls, not only because they were tall, narrow, and shaped like ponytails, but also because there were many of them to plunge over and down. Someone who plunged over Upper Yosemite Falls plunged down the Middle Cascades, a series of small waterfalls invisible from Yosemite Valley, before plunging over Lower Yosemite Falls. Compared to the one-shot plunge over Niagara Falls, the sequential plunges over Yosemite Falls entranced Reid with their order and multiplicity. If he were to plunge himself or someone else over a waterfall, Yosemite Falls would be his waterfall of choice. However, there was an important distinction between the two scenarios. If he plunged himself over Yosemite Falls, then he would only get to experience the drop from Upper Yosemite Falls to the Middle Cascades. The drop of 1,400 feet would surely kill him before he got to plunge down the Middle Cascades. If he plunged someone else over Yosemite Falls, then he would get to experience the entire drop. Like himself, someone else would die when he or she hit the water at the bottom of Upper Yosemite Falls, but if he found a suitable vantage point at the top of the trail, then Reid would get to watch as the body plunged down the 700 feet of the Middle Cascades, then over the 300 feet of Lower Yosemite Falls before being sucked down into a deep turbulent whirlpool from which recovery was nearly impossible. At the moment, if he had to choose between the two scenarios, Reid thought that he would choose the latter. In fantasy, he would choose the latter, but in reality, according to the master plan, he would choose neither. In this case, it was easy to avoid the choice, because he could simply live vicariously through others. At Yosemite, someone plunged over a waterfall almost every year. Given that the waterfalls at Yosemite were several to many times higher than Niagara Falls, the plunges were invariably fatal. In all cases, they were the result of dumb behavior - swimming in the pool directly above the waterfall, crossing the river on slippery rocks upstream of the waterfall, wading into the current to take photographs of the waterfall. Most of the victims were reckless young men who knew better but chose not to.

"In each case, the victim is believed to have died from a plunge over the falls," Reid continued. "Autopsies showed that the immediate causes of death - massive chest and abdominal trauma - were consistent with high-velocity water-impact trauma associated with horizontal entry."

"We're assuming that the deaths were not accidental or self-inflicted?" Prentiss asked.

"Five deaths in two weeks?" Morgan asked back. "I could accept the first, maybe the second, as accidents or suicides, but the third, fourth, and fifth? That's way too many incidents in such a short time."

"The local police department agreed with you," Reid said. "At Niagara Falls, accidents are very rare, and while the falls are a popular suicide location, there are only 20 or so attempts per year. At first, the local PD believed that the deaths were accidental, although it was highly improbable for more than one person to go over the falls in the span of a week. The first two bodies were recovered on Saturday, November 13 and Monday, November 15. They were found several miles downstream and several days after death. The victims, Colin Taylor, 22, and Kazuo Sato, 23, were tourists, American and Japanese, who fit the victimology of reckless young men seeking a thrill in the river upstream of the falls. In each case, the victim had been traveling alone, so he was not reported missing until he failed to check out of his hotel in Niagara Falls, New York."

"What clued them in to the fact that the deaths were not accidental?" Prentiss asked.

"The third victim, Melody Sanders, 55, was a longtime resident of the city," Reid said. "She was reported missing by her husband after she failed to return home from an evening walk on Thursday, November 18. It was her daily routine to go for a walk on the trail along the river upstream of the American Falls. She was not someone who would have wandered into the river. Suicide was ruled out immediately."

"And the other victims?" Prentiss took notes on a yellow legal pad.

"The fourth victim, Angelina Alvarez, 41, was another tourist traveling alone, but she had been on her way to meet friends in Buffalo, New York," Reid said. "She had mentioned spending the day at Niagara Falls, then leaving after sunset and arriving in Buffalo on the evening of Monday, November 22. She was reported missing the next morning, after she failed to show up at her friends' house, and her cell phone, which was later found on her body, had no signal."

"The third victim disappeared in the evening," Prentiss said. "And the fourth victim was scheduled to leave the area after dark, but never made it to her next destination. Is the timing of the murders a part of the UnSub's M.O.? If they _are_ murders, if there _is_ an UnSub..." she trailed off, still struggling with the novelty of an UnSub who murdered his victims by pushing them over Niagara Falls.

"Yes, the timing of the murders does appear to be part of the M.O.," Reid answered. "The fifth victim, Peter Hoffman, 62, was an amateur photographer from Toronto who had driven down to Niagara Falls, Ontario to take pictures of the falls at sunset. His daughter specifically mentioned that her father had not been planning to depart Toronto until 2 PM on Thursday, November 25 in order to arrive in time to set up his tripod but not much earlier. He was supposed to return home that same night, but never made it back. That puts two of the victims in the vicinity of the falls near or after dark."

"Possibly a third, if Angelina Alvarez followed through with her plans," Morgan said.

"Yes," Reid nodded.

He paused, congratulating himself for following through with his own plans. Throughout the case briefing, he had adhered to yet another tenet of playing dumb. Tenet Number 2: Answer Only When Asked. Through the magic of this tenet, he had refrained from sharing information about suicide attempts at Niagara Falls and their similarities and differences with suicide attempts at the Golden Gate Bridge, including, but not limited to, the number of documented attempts (500 vs. 1,200), the heights of the plunges (170 feet vs. 250 feet), and the success rates (99% vs. 99%). It was yet another exercise in impulse control, but this time, the exercise was successful, so Reid bore high hopes for his performance in the field.

"How exactly did the victims end up in the water?" Hotch asked. "Were they pushed over the railing directly down the falls, or were they pushed into the river upstream of the falls and swept over the side with the downstream current? Were there any witnesses who noticed any of the victims in the river before each of them plunged over the side?"

"Around the time that the first victim disappeared, two witnesses reported seeing something in the river about 100 yards upstream of the American Falls," Reid replied. "They said that the subject appeared to be struggling against the current, but they could not positively identify it as a person. Whatever it was, it was swept over the side shortly after it was spotted. This occurred around 5:30 PM on Wednesday, November 10."

"And the others?" Rossi asked.

"There were no witnesses for the other incidents," Reid answered.

"That puts another victim in the area right after dark," Morgan said. "The first, third, fourth, and fifth victims could all have been killed in the early evening."

"Tell us more about the trail along the river," Hotch said. "If the first victim was spotted in the water, then he and the third victim were both in the vicinity of the American Falls, presumably on or near the trail along the river."

"The trail is a paved walking path with a railing that blocks off the river," Reid said. "The river lies only a few feet below the trail. For most of its length, the trail follows the river along the rapids immediately upstream of the falls, but some parts of the trail do approach very close to the falls themselves, such that the trail is almost directly overlooking the falls at certain viewpoints. As you can see from the photos..." he projected a collage of scenic photos onto the screen.

"That one," Rossi pointed at a photo in the lower lefthand corner. "The river is nearly level with the trail in that photo. The trail curves up right next to the falls. If I pushed you over the edge from that location, you'd plunge directly over the falls."

"Uh...Yeah," Reid looked at the photo and nodded.

"That one too," Morgan pointed at another photo. "Check it out, Reid. The falls are directly below the railing in that photo. If I pushed you, Reid, you'd be so scr..."

"Can we not confuse team members with UnSubs and victims, please?" Hotch interrupted.

"Sorry," Morgan lowered his eyes and rubbed his head in apology.

"As you can see from the photos, there are many places along the trail where the UnSub could have pushed the victims directly down the falls," Reid said. "One of the victims may have fallen into the river upstream of the falls, but we don't know exactly how the others ended up in the water."

"Is this an international case?" Prentiss changed the subject. "You said that the fifth victim was visiting from Toronto and had driven down to Niagara Falls, Ontario rather than Niagara Falls, New York."

"The two cities face each other across the river," Reid explained. "They're connected by a short bridge just downstream of the falls, where the river narrows into the Niagara Gorge. Right now, we don't know if Peter Hoffmann visited the American side. There was no information about that in the case file. We could hazard a guess based on..." he stopped.

Tenet Number 3: No Drawing Conclusions.

"Based on?" Rossi prompted.

"It's only a shot in the dark," Reid shook his head, refusing to answer.

"Shoot away, Dr. Reid," Rossi prompted again. "It may be a shot in the dark, but it's _your_ shot in the dark."

"Um..." Reid blushed a little. "I was just going to say that the American Falls are west-facing, while the Horseshoe Falls, true to their name, form a horseshoe shape and face all directions except for south. I don't have much experience with photography, but if I wanted to take sunset pictures of the falls themselves, I'd probably take them from the east-facing Canadian side, with the Sun behind me and shining towards the falls."

"So the victim didn't cross the border! Which means that the UnSub must have crossed the border!" Garcia exclaimed. "Security at the U.S.-Canadian border is much tighter now than it was before 9/11. All passports are scanned, so there should be a record of everyone who crosses the border. I'll check to see if Peter Hoffmann crossed the border and make up a list of everyone else who crossed the border in the hours before his disappearance."

"And everyone else who crossed the border before the other victims disappeared from the American side," Prentiss said. "Let's not assume that the UnSub is American."

"Good point, Prentiss," Morgan winked across the table. "There's your diplomatic instinct. Mommy taught you well."

"Moving on..." Rossi raised his eyebrows. "Reid, you said that there were no witnesses to four of the five crimes and that four of the crimes had probably occurred shortly after dark."

"Uh-huh," Reid said, assuming a blank expression and refusing to go on. "Actually," he remembered something and went on, "Morgan was the one who said that the first and fourth crimes occurred shortly after dark. Of course, I agree with that assessment."

Tenet Number 4: Assign Credit Where Credit Was Due. Tenet Number 5: Agree With Others.

"Who cares who said what? I want to know what _you_ think," Rossi said impatiently. "The crimes occurred in the evening. There were no witnesses. Did the UnSub choose to commit the crimes in the evening in order to avoid detection?"

"Possibly," Reid said. "Possibly, the UnSub waited until after dark to push the victims into the water. During the fall season, after dark, on a tree-lined trail by the river, it would be easy to push someone into the water without being observed. The water would have been so cold that once the victims had fallen in, they would have quickly succumbed to hypothermia and would not have been able to wave their arms and call for help. Even if they had, there was no guarantee that anyone would have seen them in the darkness or heard them over the noise of rushing falling water."

"In your estimation," Rossi continued, "Would the UnSub have chosen to push the victims directly down the falls or into the river upstream of the falls?"

"Um...I think...Yes, Emily?" Reid glanced over at Prentiss, who was opening and closing her mouth as if she wanted to say something.

Tenet Number 6: Ask Others Questions.

"Oh," Prentiss looked up, startled. "I was just going to say that the UnSub would have chosen a secluded location to push the victims into the water. Even in the evening, there would have been too many people on the trail directly over the falls. The area upstream of the falls would have been much less busy. Fewer potential witnesses up there."

"And fewer potential victims," Rossi said.

"He only needs one," Prentiss pointed out the obvious.

At the exchange, Reid nodded back and forth between Rossi and Prentiss. Tenet Number 7: No Correcting Others.

"This case is making me think twice about visiting a waterfall ever again," Garcia remarked. "Or any other type of cliffy area."

"I guess the Grand Canyon is out as a potential BAU vacation destination?" Prentiss asked.

"Who said that I wanted to go on vacation with you?" Garcia smirked.

"Oh, Baby Girl, that's cold," Morgan laughed.

"Oh, I didn't mean _you_," Garcia smiled sweetly at Morgan. "I'd go on vacation with you anyday. Especially to the Grand Canyon. You can save me when I _almost_ fall in..." she batted her eyelashes and gazed up dreamily.

"Let's end here for now," Hotch said before Morgan could flirt back. "I think we understand the fundamentals of the case. So far, no clear victimology, no basic profile, only a truly bizarre M.O. Rossi and Morgan, interview the witnesses, the hotel employees, and the family of Melody Sanders when we get into town. Reid and Prentiss, stay at the police station and work with the detectives on the case. Prentiss, be prepared to work with the Canadian authorities. Garcia, stay here and keep us updated about the border crossings. Everyone get your ready bags and make sure that you're in it for the long haul. We've really got our work cut out for us on this case," he stood and gathered up his case file.

"What are you going to do?" Reid asked Hotch.

"I'm going to visit the crime scenes or what passes for crime scenes in this case," Hotch replied.

"Um...Actually, uh, I can do that, if you want," Reid said hesitantly. "I mean, I know all about the geology of the area and the hydraulics of the river and the falls and the history of people plunging over the falls and...Um, maybe I'll notice something that'll help us on the case? I dunno, maybe..."

Tenet Number 8: Over-Confidence Not Allowed.

"That's a good point, Reid," Hotch said. "You'd be looking at the scenery with a more educated eye. I'll go to the police station. The lead detective will be expecting to see me. You go and visit the crime scenes as soon as we get in, before it gets dark."

"Thanks, Hotch," Reid nodded with a small smile.

"You'd better be careful, Reid," Morgan teased. "Watch out for the UnSub. He might spot you from a distance and decide that you fit the vic..." he cut himself off at a glare from Hotch.

"Wheels up in 30," Hotch turned and exited the room.

"I've gotta hand it to you, Reid," Morgan teased again as soon as Hotch had disappeared. "Somehow, you've gotten Hotch wrapped around your little finger. He wouldn't even let me talk about pushing you down the falls."

"How do you know I won't push you down the falls before you push me down the falls?" Reid wiggled his eyebrows and stuck out his tongue in the universal expression of snotty little brothers everywhere.

"Aww, but you're both way too cute to be pushed down the falls," Garcia cooed. "Push Rossi," she suggested.

"Brilliant!" Prentiss clapped.

"See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil," Rossi mumbled on his way out of the room.

Prentiss snickered. Garcia giggled. Morgan laughed. Reid smiled. He smiled sincerely for the first time in a long time.

With a smile on his face, Reid followed his colleagues out of the room. On the way to his office to pick up his ready bag, he reviewed the tenets, then the profile. The profile, that of the UnSub, himself, and the original fallen angel, appeared before his eyes as the cross-section of an apple. At the core was guilt, and just beyond the core, in concentric ellipsoids of tasty fibers, was cynicism, the opposite of naivete.

"See what happens when you play dumb?" Reid asked himself.

"People like you more," Reid answered himself.

* * *

For the record, I heart all waterfalls, both those shaped like ponytails and those shaped like loose hair.

Next up: Reid continues to play dumb, and more of the apple.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

As a profiler, Reid had learned that building a profile was like eating an apple. He built a profile in the same way that he ate an apple, from the outside in - from the skin to the flesh to the core, and from the evidence to the behavior to the psychology. He used the evidence to deduce the behavior, then the behavior to deduce the psychology. Once he completed the profile, he abandoned the evidence and used the psychology, along with the past behavior, to deduce the future behavior. This way, he stopped a killer and ate an apple.

As a killer, Reid had learned that building a profile was not like killing a person. He built a profile not in the same way that he killed a person, from the inside out - not from the skin to the flesh to the core, but from the psychology to the behavior to the evidence. He used the psychology to induce the behavior, then the behavior to induce the evidence. Once he completed the profile, he abandoned the evidence and used the behavior, along with the past psychology, to induce the future psychology. This way, he evolved a killer and killed a person.

Reid bit through the skin and into the flesh of a small red apple as the rushing falling water bypassed his visual and auditory channels to leave his mind in darkness and silence. Darkness and silence were conducive to deduction and induction. To build a profile, he had to do both, and that was why he had come to the falls to lean over the railing, overlook the scenery, and think. The first thought that came to him was a question. Was it better for him to be a profiler or a killer? He ate the apple as he thought up the answer.

A profiler could eat an apple whenever he wanted, and a killer could kill a person whenever he wanted. A killer could build a profile whenever he wanted, but a profiler could only build a profile after the killer had built the profile. For the question of whether it was better for him to be a profiler or a killer, the answer was that it did not matter to him, because he could be both. He ate the apple as he, both profiler and killer, built the profile of "The Fallen Angel".

Building the profile of "The Fallen Angel" had required the killing of the three killers - the one at the hospital, the one at the graveyard, and the one who was everywhere. The one who was everywhere had survived, so the profile was not complete. Reid was here to complete the profile.

Within "The Fallen Angel", Reid had committed the first crime in 2005. The evidence had been the body of Philip Dowd. The behavior had been the killing of Philip Dowd, at the hospital, during a difficult situation, to save himself and others. The psychology had been that of "The Angel" - the perfect angel.

In the Bible, angels were messengers, protectors, and enforcers. Whether one read the Bible as scripture or as literature, angels played the same role there that Reid and the UnSub played, or _had_ played, on Earth.

The first crime, the killing, had been committed by an angel to save himself and others, so it had not been a crime at all. Afterwards, because the killing had not been a crime, the angel had felt no guilt. No crime, no guilt. The angel, having never killed before, had been first puzzled, then perplexed, then distressed, then distraught, that he had felt no guilt. In his experience as an angel, killing and guilt went hand in hand. Those who killed, no matter why they killed, lost their perfection, but those who felt guilt were redeemable and could regain their perfection, while those who felt no guilt were not and could not. Having killed, the angel had lost his perfection, but he could have regained it, if only he had felt the guilt that should have gone hand in hand with the killing. Not wanting to lose his perfection for good, the angel had waited, days and weeks and months, for the guilt to appear, but in all those days and weeks and months, the guilt had never appeared, because the killing, having been good and right rather than evil and wrong, should never have gone hand in hand with the guilt. On the one hand, the angel had believed that it had been good and right to kill, but on the other hand, the angel had also believed that it had been evil and wrong to feel no guilt. The angel, knowing good and evil and right and wrong, had concluded that he was evil and wrong. Feeling no guilt, but believing that it was evil and wrong to feel no guilt, the angel had turned one crime into another. The crime of killing, which had not been a crime at all, had turned into the crime of feeling no guilt, which had indeed been a crime. Feeling guilt for the crime of feeling no guilt, the angel had turned one self into another. In his eyes, because he had committed the crime of feeling no guilt, he had lost his perfection for good. Perfection had been replaced by imperfection, and the perfect angel had turned into the imperfect angel.

Within "The Fallen Angel", Reid had committed the second crime in 2007. The evidence had been the body of Tobias Hankel. The behavior had been the killing of Tobias Hankel, at the graveyard, during a difficult situation, to save himself and others. The psychology had been that of "The Angel" - the imperfect angel.

Before the crime of killing, the angel had committed another crime. He had committed the crime of choosing. In the darkness, there had been screens, and he had been made to choose who would live and who would die. He had not wished to choose, because he had not wished to wield the power over life and death that belonged to God and God alone. Against his will, the angel had chosen. Being an imperfect angel, he had chosen who would live, and his choice had been himself. In terms of the numbers that the angel was so fond of, his choice had been 100% saving himself and 0% killing others. Against his will, he had chosen, and in choosing, he had committed the crime of choosing, felt guilt, and become more imperfect still. He had turned into the imperfect angel who would choose against his will. In his eyes, because he had committed the crime of choosing, he had lost his naivete for good. Naivete had been replaced by cynicism, which had made him more imperfect still. Having become more imperfect, was it such a big deal to become more imperfect still? That was why the next crime had been so easy.

For his next crime, the angel had committed the second crime of "The Fallen Angel". The second crime, the killing, had been committed by an angel to save himself and others, so it had not been a crime at all. However, the killing had followed the choosing, so it had indeed been a crime. Within the killing had been the seed of the choosing. With his will, the angel had chosen. Being an imperfect angel, he had chosen who would die, and his choice had not been himself. His choice had been 50% saving himself and 50% killing others. With his will, he had chosen, and in choosing, he had committed the crime of choosing, felt guilt, and become more imperfect still. He had turned into the imperfect angel who would choose with his will. Having become more imperfect, was it such a big deal to become more imperfect still? That was why the next crime had been so easy.

After the crime of killing, the angel had committed another crime. He had committed the crime of gratifying himself. In the darkness, there had been drugs, and he had been made to consume them, but he had not been made to enjoy them, but he had enjoyed them nevertheless. He had not wished to enjoy them, but he had, and when he had been asked whether he had enjoyed them, he had not been able to answer that he had not. Against his will, the angel had gratified himself, and afterwards, with his will, he had gratified himself some more. Being an imperfect angel, he had acquired drugs, consumed drugs, enjoyed drugs, acquired some more, consumed some more, enjoyed some more. With his will, he had gratified himself, and in gratifying himself, he had committed the crime of gratifying himself, felt guilt, and become more imperfect still. He had turned into the imperfect angel who would gratify himself, seeking to obscure his crimes to place himself at the level of the perfect angel. In his eyes, because he had committed the crime of gratifying himself, he had lost his purity for good. Purity had been replaced by impurity, which had made him more imperfect still. Having become more imperfect, was it such a big deal to become more imperfect still? That was why the next crime had been so easy.

For his next crime, the angel had committed the crime of empowering himself. Within the empowering had been the seed of the choosing. Ever since he had been made to choose, he had wished to wield the power over life and death that belonged to God and God alone. Left behind with nothing to do while his fellow angels had flown off to do their angelic duties, the angel had empowered himself. Being an imperfect angel, he had acquired God's Will, that which he had used to choose against his will, that which he had used to choose with his will, that which he would use to choose with his will. With his will, he had empowered himself, and in empowering himself, he had committed the crime of empowering himself, felt guilt, and become more imperfect still. He had turned into the imperfect angel who would empower himself, seeking to flaunt his crimes to place himself at the level of God. In the Bible, angels who sought to place themselves at the level of God were cast down from Heaven, onto Earth, and into Hell. In his eyes, because he had committed the crime of empowering himself, he had lost his humility for good. Humility had been replaced by arrogance, and the angel had turned into the fallen angel. In the Bible, Satan the Archangel, having lost his humility and sought to place himself at, then above, the level of God, had been cast down from Heaven, onto Earth, and into Hell. In the aftermath, Satan the Fallen Angel must have asked himself, many times, a question that had an answer. Having fallen this far, was it such a big deal to fall farther still?

Within "The Fallen Angel", Reid had attempted the third crime in 2010, but only after he had started, built, and completed two other profiles - "The Novice Killer" and "The Fisher-Hunter". Building "The Novice Killer" had required the killing of the three muggers. Building "The Fisher-Hunter" had required the killing of the three prostitutes. In the chronology of the profiles, "The Fallen Angel" had preceded "The Novice Killer", "The Novice Killer" had preceded "The Fisher-Hunter", and "The Fisher-Hunter" had preceded "The Fallen Angel". Like people's emotional lives, the chronology was not linear. At some point, "The Fallen Angel" had detoured into "The Novice Killer", and at some other point, "The Fisher-Hunter" had detoured back into "The Fallen Angel".

Reid finished the apple and examined the core. He knew exactly when, in the past, the profiler had turned into the killer, but he did not know exactly when, in the future, the killer would turn back into the profiler.

The profiler had turned into the killer after he had committed two crimes in fantasy and one crime in reality. In fantasy, he had killed the old man, twice and not at all. In reality, he had acquired the revolver, once and for good. First, he had killed the old man. Second, he had killed the old man again. Then, he had conflated reality with fantasy, as was a habit of his. Having been a perfect angel, he had believed himself an imperfect angel. Having been incapable of choosing and killing, he had believed himself capable of choosing and killing. Conflating reality with fantasy, he had gone to look for the old man he had killed twice and not at all. Because he had gone to look for the old man, he had missed the plane. Because he had missed the plane, he had been left behind with nothing to do while his fellow angels had flown off to do their angelic duties. Because he had been left behind, he had been bored. He had not only been bored. He had been upset, annoyed, hurt, angry, betrayed, enraged, and all the other negative emotions and aggressive impulses that even an angel could feel and have. That was why he had acquired God's Will. That was why he had become more imperfect still. Having become more imperfect, was it such a big deal to become more imperfect still? That was why he had fallen. That was why he had fallen farther still. Having fallen this far, was it such a big deal to fall farther still?

As a fallen angel, Reid owed his life to no one. He could live however he chose to live. He could believe whatever he chose to believe. He could choose - to kill, to not kill, to wield the power over life and death that belonged to anyone who wished to wield it. Being a fallen angel, he had chosen and killed. His choice had been 0% saving himself and 100% killing others. "The Fallen Angel" had detoured into "The Novice Killer", and the profiler had turned into the killer.

Within "The Novice Killer", Reid had committed three crimes. The evidence had been the bodies of the three muggers. The behavior had been the killing of the three muggers, with his will and for no good reason. The psychology had been that of "The Fallen Angel" combined with that of "The Novice Killer" - no motive, all intent, only the urge to kill. Just as one profile could fit multiple killers, so could one killer fit multiple profiles.

After he had completed "The Novice Killer", Reid had started "The Fisher-Hunter". Within "The Fisher-Hunter", Reid had committed three crimes. The evidence had been bodies of the three prostitutes. The behavior had been the killing of the three prostitutes, with his will and for one good reason. The psychology had been that of "The Fallen Angel" combined with that of "The Fisher-Hunter" - motive, intent, the urge to kill and the urge to save. After he had completed "The Fisher-Hunter", the urge to save one had turned into the urge to save many, and "The Fisher-Hunter" had detoured back into "The Fallen Angel".

Back within "The Fallen Angel", Reid had attempted the third crime and failed. He had failed to kill the third killer. Now, leaning over the railing along the river above the falls, he imagined himself attempting the third crime and succeeding.

Within "The Fallen Angel", Reid had committed the third crime in 2010. The evidence had been the body of Spencer Reid. The behavior had been the killing of Spencer Reid, with his will and for many good reasons. The psychology had been that of "The Fallen Angel" combined with that of "The Angel" - Messenger of God, Protector of Mankind, Enforcer of Law, motive, intent, the urge to kill one and the urge to save many. The profile had been completed, and the killer had turned back into the profiler.

Because the third crime had not been committed, the profile had not been completed, and the killer had not turned back into the profiler. Reid was here to complete the profile. With his will, the combined struggle of the brain and the heart, the killer wished to turn back into the profiler. The fallen angel wished to turn back into the angel. This time, instead of attempting to stop himself, he would attempt to stop the UnSub. Like Reid, the UnSub was a fallen angel. At 6 PM, he was scheduled to arrive at the police station for his night shift, after he picked up coffee and donuts or pushed a person down the falls, whichever clarion call called the clearest. It was all up to him to save them from him.

Checking for witnesses in all directions, Reid tossed the core of the apple over the railing, into the river, and down the falls. Formerly, he had not been much of a litterer, but now that he had become a killer, littering, compared to killing, was such a laughably minor offense that it would have been far more laughable for him to traverse the twenty feet between himself and the nearest garbage can to avoid littering. For the crime of littering, Reid felt no guilt. Because he had not completed the profile, he was still a fallen angel, and fallen angels, unlike angels, felt no guilt for littering, killing, or feeling no guilt. At the end of the case, once he had completed the profile, he would go back to being an angel, and angels, unlike fallen angels, would feel guilt for littering, killing, and feeling no guilt, which would never happen again, unless he happened to commit another crime that was not a crime at all, in which case he would neither feel guilt or guilt for feeling no guilt. This time, he would be a more perfect angel - wise but not cynical, experienced if not pure, confident but not arrogant. He would know which crimes were crimes, which crimes were not crimes, and whether killing and guilt really went hand in hand. He would not conflate reality with fantasy or mistake the urge to kill for the urge to save. Soon, after the profile was complete, all this would come to pass.

Reid turned away from the railing and towards the parking lot. He was cold, tired, and hungry after spending the past two hours wandering up and down the trail, racking his brain about the profile. It was not the content of the profile that worried him. It was the presentation. How was he going to present the profile without appearing to know what the profile was? How was he going to stop the UnSub without appearing to know who the UnSub was? Ironically, playing dumb was going to require more ingenuity than solving the case had required.

Nevertheless, Reid looked forward to meeting the UnSub. Building "The Fallen Angel" would require the killing of the three killers - the one at the hospital, the one at the graveyard, and the one at the falls. Afterwards, the chronology would be linear. In the chronology of the profiles, "The Angel" would precede "The Fallen Angel", and "The Fallen Angel" would precede "The Angel". In the chronology of the occupations, the profiler would precede the killer, and the killer would precede the profiler. Between the halves of the two chronologies, the angel would coexist with the fallen angel, and the profiler would coexist with the killer.

Reid knew the Bible word for word. In the Bible, it was stated that angels, once fallen, were guilty of unforgivable sin, and unforgivable sin would not be forgiven "either in this age or the age to come". (Matthew 12:32) By "this age", Jesus had meant the period from the beginning of time to the end of time, from the Book of Genesis to the Book of Revelation. By "the age to come", Jesus had meant the period after the end of time, which, being after the end of time, was timeless and eternal.

* * *

"What have we got so far?" Hotch opened the meeting at the police station.

At his words, a chorus of chewing, swallowing, and slurping turned into a solo of chewing, swallowing, and slurping, followed by an encore of drink gurgling, straw retracting, and napkin crumpling, ended by the bows of a sheepish silence.

"Now that Reid's done stuffing his face..." Morgan patted Reid on the back to burp him after his bout of gluttony.

"We'll start with the first two victims," Hotch continued solemnly. "Dave, what did you learn from the hotel employees?"

"The first victim, Colin Taylor, native of Burlington, Vermont, driving alone from Vermont to Chicago, stopping by the falls on the way," Rossi flipped through his color-coded notes. "Arrived in town on the evening of Tuesday, November 9, checked into a motel, colorfully dubbed 'The End of the Rainbow' by its Mom and Pop owners. According to security footage from the motel, he left his room around 9 AM the next day, the 10th, went down to the lobby for breakfast, returned to his room to pick up a backpack, camera, and tripod, and left the building around 10 AM for a day at the falls. Did not return to the motel that night. Did not check out, as scheduled, the next day, the 11th. The motel owner and manager, Pop, called his cell phone several times that day, but no answer and no signal. Two days later, on Saturday, November 13, the body was found on the banks of the river below the falls. What'd I miss?" he turned to Morgan.

"The backpack, camera, and tripod were never found," Morgan read from his own notes. "The car was found in the motel parking lot. After he arrived in town, Taylor didn't drive his car at all. After the body was found, the car was towed away as evidence in a then non-criminal investigation. Local PD found no evidence of foul play and nothing incriminating in the car or the motel room."

"Not that they knew what they were looking for," Rossi added. "Not that _we_ know what _we're_ looking for. Basically, the car and the motel room contained all of Taylor's worldly possessions. He had been moving to start a new job in Chicago."

"The second victim, Kazuo Sato, native of Osaka, Japan, traveling alone in our fine country," Rossi flipped through his notes again. "Arrived in town, on a bus from Buffalo, on the afternoon of Thursday, November 11, checked into a motel, a different one with fewer security cameras. He checked in, dropped off his bags in his room, and left the building around 4 PM. Did not return to the motel that night. Did not check out, as scheduled, two days later, on the 13th. The body was found on Monday, November 15, three miles downstream of the first victim."

"Except for his wallet and cell phone, Sato didn't take anything with him when he left the motel. There was no trace of him until his body was found," Morgan added.

"Were either Taylor or Sato spotted in security footage around town?" Reid asked.

Avoiding Hotch's gaze, he nudged the conversation in the right direction. The issue of security footage was still sensitive, because it had been only a few days since he himself had been spotted in security footage around town. Except for Hotch and presumably Garcia, no one else had seen him soliciting prostitutes in CCTV footage from the streets of Washington, DC. Reid hoped that Morgan would never find out. Morgan would never let him hear the end of it, at least not until he falsely confessed that it was a habit of his to solicit prostitutes in his spare time.

"Yeah," Morgan replied. "Taylor was recorded leaving a restaurant near the falls at 1:30 PM on the 10th, the day he disappeared."

"A restaurant called 'The Pot of Gold', and yes, it's owned by the same Mom and Pop who own 'The End of the Rainbow'," Rossi added unnecessarily.

Reid glanced over at Rossi, hoping that Rossi was not implicating Mom and Pop in the murders. Mom and Pop were only to be congratulated for thinking up such colorful names for their business establishments and not to be blamed for crimes that they had not committed.

"What about in official CCTV footage?" Reid asked.

"Yes," Garcia replied from within a laptop at the head of the table. "Taylor was recorded at the main viewpoint above the American Falls, starting from shortly after 11 AM to half past twelve on the 10th. He stuck around for quite awhile, fiddling with his camera and tripod and taking pictures in every direction."

"And Sato?" Prentiss asked.

"No sign of Sato in any of the official CCTV footage," Garcia replied.

"Nothing?" Prentiss frowned at the laptop. "Nothing at the falls or around town?"

"There aren't that many cameras around town," Garcia explained. "This isn't DC. Here, Big Brother is not always watching. Near the falls, there are cameras overlooking the parking lot and the viewpoints, but that's about it. No cameras at all on the trail along the river. I specifically checked for Sato in the footage from the falls. Nothing."

"Maybe he went out for dinner and not to the falls," Morgan suggested.

"Then how'd he end up down the falls?" Prentiss asked.

"Maybe he was pushed from the trail along the river," Morgan answered. "It's dark and secluded up there, plus Big Brother isn't watching."

"But wouldn't he have stopped by the viewpoints first?" Prentiss asked. "If I had come all the way from Japan to see the falls, then I'd have made the falls my first stop after I checked in at the motel. I wouldn't have wandered up and down the trail to get pushed into the river before I could see the falls."

"Maybe the victim did visit the viewpoints, but he was not identified by the facial recognition software," Reid suggested.

"Hey, no knocking the software!" Garcia exclaimed. "I wrote part of the code myself."

"Is this the software that combines statistical information from multiple images of a person to generate hits after searching a video frame by frame?" Reid asked.

"Yeah, it's really accurate, so..."

"But it's a traditional 2-D system?" Reid cut her off.

"Yeah, it's a 2-D system, but..."

"2-D facial recognition systems are sensitive to changes in lighting and pose," Reid cut her off again. "The software is good at matching faces in the full frontal orientation, but as soon as the viewing angle increases to 20 or 30 degrees, it fails to generate hits. At 90 degrees, profile views are impossible to match based on a set of frontal images. The software also fails under poor lighting conditions, such as those during sunrise or sunset, which is when the second victim was out and about on the late afternoon of the 11th. In addition, all facial recognition systems, 2-D and 3-D, have difficulty with facial expressions. That's why some countries, such as Canada, now require neutral expressions in passport photos. No smiling allowed."

"I assure you, Dear Doctor, that the system has been thoroughly tested," Garcia replied, a hint of exasperation creeping into her normally patient demeanor. "There's no way that the Bureau would be using this software if it weren't reliable. JJ tells me that the Department of Defense uses the same software, and so does the State Department."

"Even so, I think we should..."

"You two can discuss the software later," Hotch interrupted, shooting Reid a glare of warning. "You can debate facial recognition systems to your hearts' content after we get back to Quantico. Right now, we have a case to investigate."

"Sorry," Reid apologized, first to the room, then to the laptop. "I was just surprised that the victim didn't show up in the footage. It's unexpected..." he shrugged, trailed off, and sank deep into his chair.

He fidgeted, then grabbed his cup and gurgled his drink, as if the gurgling noise in the auditory channel would break up the unwanted stares in the visual channel, as ultrasonic shock waves broke up kidney and gallstones. As superficial as his apology had seemed, he really was sorry, because his intention had not been to drill Garcia about the software. His intention had been to aggravate Garcia, only a little, as payback for her betrayal of him a few days ago. Last Wednesday, after he had recovered from his panic attack and false confession, Reid had realized that because Hotch did not spend all his time in a dark office staring at computer screens, that Garcia must have been the one who had spotted him in the CCTV footage and ratted him out to Hotch. He wondered whether Garcia had accidentally glanced up from the chow mein in her cleavage to spot him, or whether she had purposefully loaded photos of him into the facial recognition software to search for him. He decided that he didn't give a damn either way. Either way, she had ratted him out, and he had been, and was still, moderately annoyed with her. At the zoo, if the chimps wanted to fling poop at the gorillas, then they had better be prepared for the gorillas to fling it back at them.

"Can we see a clip of the footage?" Rossi asked Garcia.

"Sure, no problem," Garcia typed on her keyboard. "This is from the afternoon of the 10th. Do you see it? Is it playing?" she peered anxiously through the webcam.

"Yeah," Prentiss leaned in for a closer look at the video playing on the laptop screen. "Let's see...11/11/2010, 16:15. Looks like a slow day at the falls...Not too many people leaning over the railing. Creepy clown with balloon animals...Poor kids look terrified...So does the dog. Video quality is surprisingly sharp, so facial recognition shouldn't be a problem, at least not during the daytime. Oh, it just stopped! Why'd it stop?"

"The video has reached the end of the file," Garcia explained. "As the footage is recorded, files are created on a storage server. The files are limited in size, so a new file is created every time the limit is reached. Here's the next file from that day," she typed again. "See it?"

"Yeah, looks good to me," Morgan said.

"What happened to the clown?" Reid asked.

"And the kids? And the dog?" Prentiss squinted at the video.

"Are you sure this is the next file?" Rossi asked. "The scenery is the same, but the people are all different."

"Yeah, this is the next file from that day," Garcia blinked in confusion. "At least it should be. The files are automatically saved according to a naming convention that includes a timestamp in the filename. This file's got a 16:15 timestamp, so this video should be picking up where the last one left off."

"Well, it is, and it isn't," Rossi said. "The last video left off at 16:15, and this video picks up at 16:15, but the images are totally different."

Reid looked up from the laptop to meet Rossi's gaze. Rossi looked at him with a meaningful glint in his eye. Reid wondered why Rossi was ogling him instead of Rossi's regular ogling recipient, Hotch. Then, he recalled that he was the one who had set off the chain of questioning, which, having been started only to aggravate Garcia, had also led where he had wanted it to lead.

"When was the file last modified?" Reid asked, taking advantage of the opening.

"Last modified...Let's see, let's see," Garcia typed. "Last modified...11/15/2010, 22:18."

"Were any other files modified after they were saved?" Rossi asked.

"For any other days this month?" Prentiss asked.

"Hold on, let me pull up a list of all the video files," Garcia typed rapidly. "No...And no. Wait...Actually...It looks like four other files were modified after they were saved. In total, five files from the 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, and 12th were all modified on the same day at the same time."

"Which day?" Hotch asked.

"The same day at the same time," Garcia answered blankly. "Oh, sorry! I meant 11/15/2010, 22:18."

"What are the timestamps on the modified files?" Reid asked.

"From the 8th, 16:10. The 9th, 16:39. The 10th, 16:25. The 12th, 16:20," Garcia read from a computer screen. "Huh, I'm not a profiler, but even I can see where this is going."

"Check the videos," Hotch ordered. "Does the end of one video match up with the beginning of the next?"

"Checking, checking..." Garcia typed faster than ever. "From the 8th, the video picks up at 16:10. That's the timestamp in the filename. But the first frame is totally different from the last frame of the previous video! Same for the 9th...And the 10th...And the 12th. I'm sending you images of the frames."

"Who modified the footage? That is The Question," Rossi declared momentously.

"On this server, only administrators have write permissions," Garcia said. "At the time of modification, the logged on administrator was...Terrence Wood, tech at the Niagara Falls Police Department."

"Is he working tonight?" Morgan asked.

"No, he normally works during the day," Garcia checked the shift schedule. "He must have picked up the night shift for that night only."

"Looks like we should pay this Terrence Wood a visit," Morgan concluded.

"Let's not be hasty," Hotch said. "Right now, it looks like he modified the files, but he may have had a good reason for doing so."

"A good reason to modify official CCTV footage?" Morgan raised his eyebrows. "Footage from the time around sunset when the victims were presumably pushed down the falls? The body of the second victim was found on the 15th. That fits in perfectly with an UnSub killing two victims on the 10th and 11th and covering up the evidence on the 15th, after both bodies had been recovered from the river. Maybe the tech asked for the night shift specifically to avoid prying eyes while he modified the footage."

"Morgan's got a point," Prentiss agreed. "We should talk to this tech ASAP. I don't know if we can afford to wait for him to show up to work tomorrow morning. He's gotta know that we're here. What if he high-tails it out of town tonight?"

"We've gotta do something, Hotch," Morgan said. "Why don't we bring him in and hold him for the time being?"

"No," Hotch shook his head adamantly. "We don't have a profile. Not even the beginnings of a profile. That means we don't have an informed strategy for approaching the interrogation. We're not ready to bring him in."

"But we can't risk him leaving town tonight," Prentiss argued.

"I've got an idea," Morgan raised his hand.

"Shoot," Rossi said.

"I can stake out his house tonight and make sure that he doesn't try to leave," Morgan sighed in resignation.

"I'll come with you," Prentiss offered.

"Are you sure?" Morgan asked. "Are you crazy?" his face asked silently.

"Yes, I'm sure," Prentiss said. "This might be the UnSub. You can't go there alone."

"I'll take one of the local guys," Morgan said.

"I've been talking to the local guys all afternoon," Prentiss said. "With the recession and the budget cuts, the police department is desperately understaffed. They can't spare anyone to sit in a car all night. I'll come with you. Who needs sleep when there's a case to solve and an UnSub to catch?"

"Did you hear that, Hotch?" Morgan gestured at Prentiss. "Who needs sleep when there's a case to solve and an UnSub to catch? The dedication? The devotion? The borderline obsession?"

"It's inspiiiiiiiring..." Garcia marveled.

"Alright, it's settled," Hotch replied in monotone. "Morgan and Prentiss, guard duty. Garcia, the address?"

"5606 Frost Street, Apartment 3A," Garcia answered immediately. "Third floor, front-facing windows. You should be able to see him turn the lights on and off in his apartment. Parking lot only has one exit to the street. There's no other way for him to leave, unless he walks out the front door or climbs over the fence behind the building."

"He could leave in the garbage truck, with the garbage, on Garbage Day," Reid blurted out.

"Yeah, Reid, brilliant thinking. We'll keep an eye out for garbage trucks," Morgan punched Reid lightly on the shoulder as he stood up. "Come on, Prentiss, let's go. We can pick up coffee and donuts on the way."

"Coffee and donuts?" Prentiss brightened at the suggestion. "Do you miss your days on the force? Is that why you volunteered for guard duty, or do you just want an excuse to consume coffee and donuts all night?"

"Hey, no dissing the force," Morgan warned.

"You mean coffee and donuts," Prentiss smirked.

"May the Coffee and Donuts be with you," Reid blurted out again, towards the backs of Morgan and Prentiss, who ignored him as they exited the room.

He sank into his chair until it slipped out from under him. Then, he sat back up, smoothed his shirt, straightened his tie, and made up his mind to blurt out nonsense every time he felt the urge to blurt out the content of the profile or the identity of the UnSub. The room was cold, and so was he, but at least he was not Morgan or Prentiss, who would soon be colder than cold during a sleepless night of purposeless surveillance. Terrence Wood, technical analyst at the Niagara Falls Police Department, was not the UnSub, because he, like Garcia, was only a technical analyst and not an angel - perfect, imperfect, or fallen.

The UnSub was not the technical analyst, Terrence Wood, nor was he the lead detective, Grace Dylan, who had requested the expertise of the BAU on the same Tuesday on which "The Fisher-Hunter" had detoured back into "The Fallen Angel". The UnSub was the other detective, the one who had modified the official CCTV footage during his night shift on Monday, November 15, which had been the Monday two weeks before this Monday, which was today. To the UnSub, modifying the footage had been a smart move, but to Reid, it had been a dumb move. Reid was sure that the UnSub had modified the footage not to cut out the victims, but rather himself, prowling the falls for people to push into the water. In his personal and professional opinion, Reid thought that the UnSub should have left the footage alone. Just as an FBI agent wandering the streets was only an FBI agent wandering the streets, so a police officer wandering the falls was only a police officer wandering the falls. In this case, unlike in the other, the killer had not been a skilled obstructor.

Reid thought back to that Monday two weeks ago, back when he had been neither killer or obstructor. That Monday had been the Monday after the Thursday and Friday on which he had committed two crimes in fantasy. On that Friday, he had been left behind with nothing to do while his fellow angels had flown off to do their angelic duties, and so, on that Monday, he had committed one crime in reality. On that Monday, the angel had turned into the fallen angel. By that Monday, the UnSub had already been a fallen angel. Ironically, two weeks later and today, the angel who had fallen earlier was still building "The Novice Killer", while the angel who had fallen later had completed both "The Novice Killer" and "The Fisher-Hunter" and had almost completed "The Fallen Angel" on his way to "The Angel".

As for when the UnSub had started "The Fallen Angel", Reid didn't know, but he meant to find out, any way he could. That was the promise that he had made to himself on the Wednesday on which he had attempted and failed to stop himself, both in his kitchen at home and in his office at work. On that same Wednesday, he had suggested that Hotch take Jack sledding in the snow near Niagara Falls during the Thanksgiving weekend. In turn, Hotch had suggested that he take it easy that weekend, which meant not taking any case files home with him, so he could enjoy the weekend and be ready and refreshed to jump back into it on Monday. In one ear, through the brain, and out the other, that was exactly what he had done.

On Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, Reid had taken it easy. On Wednesday, after recovering from his panic attack and false confession and before eating a dozen cupcakes with JJ, he had chosen the case from the hundreds of cases that he had stored in his mind on the same Saturday on which he had started "The Fisher-Hunter". That Saturday, his mind had been favored, because it had been prepared, and so had it been prepared and favored the following Wednesday, the same day on which he had named the profile that he had started, built, and not completed. Also, that Wednesday, after eating a dozen cupcakes with JJ and before cleaning up the mess on the kitchen floor, he had watched the official CCTV footage that Detective Dylan had sent him after he had informed her that the BAU was considering her case. With regards to the footage and the case, Garcia's facial recognition software had been doomed to the same fate as Garcia's case screening software. Neither would be supplanting his brain anytime soon. In his office, with the door open and the blinds closed, it had taken Reid only two videos, and a check of the shift schedule, to identify the UnSub. The two videos, the ones with and without the creepy clown, had been the same videos that the profilers had used to identify the UnSub, except the profilers had identified the wrong UnSub.

The profilers were only profilers. They were not killers, nor were they obstructors. In this case, it had taken one killer to identify another and one obstructor to identify another. Unfortunately for one killer and obstructor, the other was killer, obstructor, _and_ profiler. Like one killer and obstructor, the other had killed and obstructed, but there was a fundamental difference between the two that had nothing and everything to do with profiling.

As the UnSub, Detective Scott Collier, entered the room, Reid reflected, in the darkness and silence of his non-attentive visual and auditory channels, that smart people playing dumb were sure to start, build, and complete profiles faster than dumb people playing smart.

* * *

Sorry, dear readers, for the slow update. A dumb person got stuck in a major travel fail after the holidays and learned the following: next time go on long driving trip, check weather before leave house.

Next up: Hotch and Rossi go off to do something useless, while Scotty and Spencey begin a new bromance (or maybe not).


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"Agent Hotchner?" Detective Scott Collier entered the room and looked from Hotch to Rossi and back to Hotch again.

Reid noted that Collier didn't look at him.

"Yes," Hotch stood up to shake hands. "You must be Detective Collier. SSA David Rossi and SSA Dr. Spencer Reid," he gestured behind him.

"Please, call me Scott," Collier introduced himself. "Sorry I'm late for the meeting. I stopped by the falls on my way into work today. Just to maintain a police presence, you know. Ever since Melody Sanders was found, the residents have been shaken up about the murders. Most people are avoiding the trail along the river or the entire area of the falls now. Good thing the murders haven't become national news yet. Hopefully, you can help us put a stop to them before the reporters get wind of this. Otherwise, the tourists might stop coming, and the city can't afford that during the current economy. For months, the Mayor's been promoting the city as a holiday destination, then as a winter destination for the frozen falls, so we're under intense pressure to solve the case ASAP. That was why Grace and I were so quick to request federal assistance. Anyway, I picked up a guy in the parking lot above the falls. He was harassing a group of tourists, offering to push one of them down the falls. Looked and sounded like a psycho, but I didn't recognize him as one of the regular vagrants around town, so I thought I'd bring him in, just in case you wanted to interview him."

"Certainly," Hotch said. "Thank you for bringing him in. We'll interview him right away. So far, we haven't gotten anywhere with the profile, so we're maintaining an open mind on all potential UnSubs."

"So you haven't come up with a, uh, psychoanalysis of the, um, UnSub yet?" Collier tested out the terminology.

"No," Reid replied. "So far, we've only identified a person of interest, whom our colleagues, Agents Morgan and Prentiss, are monitoring overnight."

"You mean you have agents staking out his apartment?" Collier asked.

"Yes," Reid answered, then paused, hoping that Hotch and Rossi had caught on to Collier's choice of words.

"Dave," Hotch turned to Rossi. "Why don't you take the lead on the interrogation? I'll back you up outside. In the meantime, Reid, fill in the details for Detective Collier. We'll be back in a little bit."

"Or a large bit, depending on how the interrogation goes," Rossi stood up wearily.

"Sure," Reid nodded, only slightly annoyed that Hotch and Rossi hadn't caught on to Collier's choice of words.

For Hotch, he made the excuse that Hotch, as the Unit Chief, had been preoccupied with his executive functions - deciding who did what when. For Rossi, there was no excuse, unless Rossi had been deep in thought about one of his three ex-wives, in which case Reid had no right to impugn his focus, having no ex-wives or -girlfriends to deepen his own thoughts. Besides, while his colleagues had done their duties this afternoon, he had spent two hours eating and littering along the river, so who was he to impugn anyone else's focus?

"Sounds good to me," Collier sat down in the nearest chair. "We'll see you in a little bit," he waved Hotch and Rossi out of the room, then swiveled around to face Reid. "Dr. Reid, I'm anxious to hear your thoughts on the case."

"Uh, yes, um, of course," Reid cleared his throat, shuffled his papers, and swiveled his chair, adopting his absent-minded professor persona.

"The Absent-Minded Professor" was the persona that he adopted for local law enforcement to soften the blow of his intellectual superiority over them. Long ago, Reid had learned that people felt more comfortable around their intellectual equals than their intellectual superiors. That was why, around local law enforcement in particular and people in general, he adopted fidgety body language, facial expressions ranging from mild distraction to severe oblivion, and gratuitously convoluted speech patterns juxtaposing rapidfire breakneck fluency with uh, st-st-stutter-ter-tering and um, st-st-stammer-mer-mering, as if he were reciting lines out of, or dictating lines into, esoteric academic publications, while under the influence of a drug cocktail of psychostimulating methamphetamines and dysphasia-inducing antipsychotics. The persona enveloped him in a personal force field that zapped two fence climbers with one electrical discharge - first, by shielding others from himself, and second, by shielding himself from others. Even his peculiarities of dress, down to his mismatched socks, were part and parcel of his adopted persona.

When honest with himself, Reid admitted that his persona was only partially adopted, because the majority of it _was_ his genuine self. The real difference between his persona and his genuine self was the recognition, _by_ his genuine self, _of_ his persona as a presentable sliding scale of himself that he adjusted, as required, to achieve his personal and/or professional sociological and/or psychological objectives. Just as the psychiatrist was more self-aware of his own mind than was the average person, so was the profiler more self-aware of his own persona - a combination of behavior and psychology, or meat and potatoes, the specific choice of words boiling down to the munchies status of the profiler during the period of self-awareness.

Alternatively, through creepier-colored glasses, Reid was both puppet and puppeteer. In front of his team, he played himself as a mildly exaggerated version of his genuine self. In front of other teams, he played himself as a severely exaggerated version. In both cases, he exaggerated the majority to attenuate the minority. He never played himself as his genuine self, because, in addition to "The Absent-Minded Professor", his genuine self also included "The Mad Scientist", an eviler twin delineated by his three defining personality characteristics - intellectual brilliance, emotional instability, and moral ambiguity - of which the existence of the third was predicated upon the combined existence of its two preceding partners in crime.

"As, uh, Agent Hotchner mentioned earlier," Reid began the interrogation. "We haven't, uh, gotten anywhere with the profile, but we have, um, identified a person of interest in the case. Hm..." he gazed past the detective at the opposite wall, as if he had lost his train of thought.

"Yes, you've identified a person of interest," Collier prompted. "May I ask who the person is?"

"Oh, um, the person of interest," Reid shifted his eyes, several times, between the detective and the wall. "Actually, let me start over," he rolled his chair closer to the laptop, within which Garcia had been replaced by frames of video from the CCTV footage. "Are you familiar with the CCTV system here? I can explain, if..." he moved the images around the screen, waiting for a response from Collier.

"Yeah, sure," Collier replied.

"Yeah, sure, you're familiar, or yeah, sure, explain?" Reid asked.

"Please explain," Collier said.

"CCTV stands for closed-circuit television," Reid embarked upon a journey of a thousand facts. "In CCTV systems, video cameras capture and transmit information from many remote locations to one central monitoring station. In the past, live videos were transmitted to be monitored by live people. Did you know that CCTV systems were first employed by the Germans during World War II to observe V-2 rocket launches? From 1942 onwards, the Germans launched V-2s against Allied targets in Belgium and England. At the time, no other rocket came close to the range of the V-2. Coincidentally, the V-2, the world's first long-range ballistic missile, was employed in conjunction with CCTV, the world's first long-range surveillance system. Did you know that warfare has always been a prime driver of technological innovation? After the war, Wernher von Braun, the German scientist who developed the V-2 in his roles as both scientist and Nazi party member/SS officer, surrendered to the Americans rather than the Soviets, became a U.S. citizen, and worked for the U.S. Army during the Cold War to develop intercontinental ballistic missiles based on the V-2. After the Soviets launched Sputnik in the late '50s, the American public panicked that we were falling behind in the Space Race, so Wernher von Braun was transferred to NASA to head the Marshall Space Flight Center near Huntsville, Alabama. He only agreed to the transfer on the condition that NASA received research funding for genuine space exploration beyond the Space Race. He had a vision for the future of humanity in space. Can you believe that even with all his wartime and post-war activities geared towards killing people, that he never stopped having a vision and being a romantic? As the greatest rocket scientist of all time, his greatest achievement was the development of the Saturn V booster rocket that launched the Apollo spacecraft to send us, rather than the Soviets, to the Moon, effectively winning the Space Race for us. At the time, the Apollo Moon Landing was regarded, by the government at least, as a victory in the Cold War, but now, it is universally regarded as 'one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind'. I think Wernher would have liked that. I think he did like that. He died in 1977. What do you think of him? First, he was a German who worked for them to kill us. Then, he became one of us and worked to save us from the Soviets. What kind of person was Wernher von Braun? Good or bad?"

"All's well that ends well?" Collier shrugged.

"All's well that ends well!" Reid laughed, tacking a soft snort onto the end of his laugh to exaggerate his persona. He shifted his eyes several times between the detective, the wall, and the table before continuing, "Um, uh, why...Why are we talking about Wernher von Braun?" he gazed at Collier.

"I dunno, Doc," Collier chuckled. "You were telling me about CCTV systems, then V-2 rockets, then this Wernher von Braun guy."

"Sorry, Detective," Reid apologized. "I have a habit of drifting off onto tangents. Let's return to the CCTV footage. Where did I leave off on that?"

"You were saying that in the past, live videos were monitored by live people," Collier replied. "I'm assuming that's no longer the case?"

"No, that's no longer the case," Reid said. "Now, CCTV footage is recorded to network-attached storage devices and analyzed by automated video processing software. Biometric techniques are employed to match subjects in videos. In 2001, facial recognition software was employed at the Super Bowl to scan the crowd for suspicious individuals from a database of criminals and terrorists. It ended up identifying 19 individuals with pending arrest warrants."

"Wow, 19," Collier said. "So the software is pretty accurate?"

"It has its limits, but in general, it's pretty accurate," Reid said. "Of course, no facial recognition software can match the visual cortex of the human brain."

"Really? I thought computers were taking over the world," Collier remarked. "Ever since that computer program beat that chess player..."

"Garry Kasparov vs. Deep Blue," Reid cut in. "Yes, the loss is what everyone remembers, but the story is more complicated than that. Before Kasparov lost to Deep Blue in 1997, Kasparov beat Deep Blue in 1996. In six games over six days, Kasparov beat Deep Blue 4-2, with three wins, one loss, and two draws. Afterwards, IBM upgraded Deep Blue, and one year later, Deep Blue beat Kasparov 3.5-2.5, with two wins, one loss, and three draws. The rules of the rematch allowed the programmers to upgrade the software between games, and so, they did, having it learn from its mistakes and respond to its opponent. Kasparov accused IBM of hiding human chess players behind Deep Blue, but IBM denied the allegations and rejected the idea of yet another rematch. Anyhow, if you sum up the games won and lost from the '96 and '97 matches, Kasparov beat Deep Blue 6.5-5.5, with four wins, three losses, and five draws, all without upgrading himself by the same percentage that the programmers upgraded Deep Blue. The human was a whole game better than the computer. Let me put it this way. If my life depended on the outcome of a chess game, then I'd pick Kasparov over Deep Blue to play for me. What about you, Detective? Would you pick the human or the computer?"

"I dunno, I'd probably pick the computer," Collier considered. "Humans tend to get emotional and make mistakes. I'd pick the computer, unless I knew for sure that the human could be counted on to..."

"To separate the intellectual and the emotional?" Reid asked. "To possess the speed of a computer and the creativity of a human on the intellectual plane while possessing none of the inexplicable impulses that cause problems for us on the emotional plane as they do for us in our everyday lives? To be, in effect, a life-like human computer?"

"Yeah, something like that," Collier agreed.

"We believe that the UnSub, the person who obstructed the evidence, did so on impulse after his first two crimes, and that the act of obstruction evolved him from impulse-driven predator to purpose-driven predator," Reid declared.

"Whoa, Doc, you totally lost me there," Collier widened his eyes, shifted them back and forth between Reid and the laptop, and leaned back in his chair, waiting for an explanation.

"I'm sorry, that was rather abrupt," Reid apologized. "Let me explain. As you know, the UnSub killed the first two victims on two successive days - the 10th and 11th of this month. He modified the CCTV footage for those days as well as for the 8th, 9th, and 12th. Together, the 8th through the 12th comprised a work week from Monday through Friday. From the evidence, or rather its obstruction, it appears that the UnSub spent the work week prowling the falls, encountered two victims on two evenings around sunset, pushed them both down the falls, then modified the CCTV footage to cut himself out of the videos from all the days that week. He killed the first two victims on impulse rather than on purpose. After he modified the CCTV footage, after the act of obstruction, he..."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand the difference between impulse-driven predator and purpose-driven predator," Collier interjected.

"The impulse-driven predator and the purpose-driven predator are two successive stages in the evolution of 'The Novice Killer'," Reid explained. "The impulse-driven predator kills on impulse. He prowls for prey without the conscious intent to kill. Each evening, he walks around the falls, subconsciously looking for victims to push down the falls. If he encounters a victim, then he kills him. If he doesn't encounter a victim, then he goes home or to work or wherever. He spends so much time at the falls that he has to cut himself out of the CCTV footage. In contrast, the purpose-driven predator kills on purpose. He seeks out prey with the conscious intent to kill. He waits around on the trail or behind the trees, consciously looking for a tourist to come by, so he can push her down the falls. He visits the area at a certain time, after his day shift or before his night shift, looking for the woman who walks the trail every evening. Unlike his predecessor, he doesn't spend so much time at the falls that he has to cut himself out of the CCTV footage. Over time, he has evolved within the profile of 'The Novice Killer', progressing from one stage to another. In this case, we believe that the act of obstruction evolved the UnSub from impulse-driven predator to purpose-driven predator. Before the act of obstruction, he killed on impulse, as a knee-jerk reaction to the presence of prey within his quasi-natural environment. After the act of obstruction, he killed on purpose, seeking out prey within the same environment for the express purpose of killing them. In either case, he has no motive, only intent - subconscious, then conscious."

"I got all of that except one part," Collier said. "What is 'The Novice Killer'? Is that a profile?"

"Yes, 'The Novice Killer' is a profile," Reid replied. "It's a very simple profile. 'The Novice Killer' feels an urge to kill. He looks for victims, subconsciously, then consciously. He finds them. He kills them. He kills with intent, but without motive. He has an urge to kill, but no reason to kill."

"I understand the difference between motive and intent, but not between conscious and subconscious intent," Collier said.

"Let me give you an example," Reid said. "Let's suppose that I'm walking around in an area, maybe in a dark alley on a rainy night, and I encounter three muggers. I'm walking down the alley, and I hear them sneaking up behind me. One or all of them may or may not be armed with a knife or a gun. I don't know, and I can't tell. I'm an FBI agent, so I carry a gun at all times. I'm walking down the alley, and I hear the muggers coming closer and closer. Just as the first one is pulling out his weapon, I turn around. On impulse, I shoot him, and I kill him. I shoot him in the chest, as I've been trained to do. He goes down, but there's a second one behind him. I don't know if the second one has a weapon. I shoot him. I kill him. He goes down, but there's a third one behind both of them. The third one is unarmed, so he runs away. I chase him down, like a predator chasing down his prey. On purpose, I shoot him, and I kill him. I try to shoot him in the back, but I miss, so I shoot him in the back of the head instead. In the first case, I killed on impulse, without the conscious intent to kill and with the subconscious intent to kill. In the third case, I killed on purpose, with the conscious intent to kill. The second case is a bit of a gray area, maybe 50-50. In all cases, I had no motive, only intent. Does that make sense, Detective?"

"Yeah, perfectly," Collier replied. "Wow, Doc, that makes a ton of sense. Here, let me try it out on this case. In this case, the UnSub feels an urge to kill. To satisfy the urge, he spends a week prowling the falls, subconsciously looking for victims to push down the falls. On Monday and Tuesday, he encounters no victims. On Wednesday, he encounters a victim and pushes him down the falls. On Thursday, he encounters a victim and pushes him down the falls. On Friday, he encounters no victims. The next Monday, he cuts himself out of the CCTV footage from the previous Monday through Friday. That's the act of obstruction. After the act of obstruction, he evolves from impulse-driven predator to purpose-driven predator. Did I get that right, Doc?"

"Yes, perfectly," Reid replied brightly, like a teacher pleased with the aptitude of a student.

"So what happens next?" Collier asked. "What's the next stage in the evolution of the UnSub?"

"Not so fast, Detective," Reid said. "To predict the future behavior and psychology of the UnSub, we have to examine the past behavior and psychology. Specifically, the act of obstruction itself. Don't you think the timing of the crimes is curious?"

"Yeah, we've been wondering about that," Collier nodded. "Why do you think the UnSub kills the victims around sunset?"

"Oh, I didn't mean the time of day," Reid shook his head. "I meant the timing of the crimes - the crimes of killing and obstructing."

"I'm sorry?" Collier frowned in confusion.

"The UnSub killed the first two victims on two successive days," Reid said. "Then, he waited a whole week before killing the third victim. In the interim, he obstructed the evidence. It's almost as if..." he lost his train of thought. "Your department first requested federal assistance on Monday, November 15. Is that right?"

"Uh, yeah, sort of," Collier replied hesitantly. "The second victim was found on the morning of the 15th. At the time, we had considered the incidents to be accidents or suicides, more likely accidents, based on the identities of the victims. We requested a consult from the BAU to establish the accidental nature of the incidents once and for all. Naturally, the family of Colin Taylor asked many questions about his death, and we knew that the family of Kazuo Sato would be asking many of the same questions. Sato was a tourist from Japan, so we had to handle his case with extra sensitivity. We requested the consult to get the federal stamp of approval, so to speak..."

"Detective Dylan was the one who requested the consult?" Reid asked.

"No, I was," Collier answered.

"On the 15th?"

"Yes."

"Well, I apologize for not responding earlier," Reid said. "At the time, I was not aware that you had requested a consult. The BAU was away on a case from the 12th through the 18th, and our case screener at the time, who also happens to be our technical analyst, had flown off with the team for the case. After the case with the killer/obstructor twins, I took on the case screening responsibilities, but I didn't notice your request until the 20th, because I was busy completing the profile of the previous case."

"Huh..." Collier squinted in confusion.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Detective," Reid shook his head sheepishly. "I'm boring you with the details. I have a habit of boring everyone with the details. What I meant to say was that after the killer/obstructor case, the BAU had two choices of cases and profiles to pursue, and we chose the other case over your case. On the 15th, had we responded to your request, we would have agreed with you that the first two incidents were accidents."

"That's good to know," Collier shrugged.

"The UnSub obstructed the evidence on the same day that you requested the consult," Reid stated.

"On the 15th...Yeah," Collier licked his lips.

"The act of obstruction coincided with the act of promotion," Reid stated again, same but different. "You requested the consult on Monday, November 15. That's the act of promotion. The UnSub obstructed the evidence on Monday, November 15. That's the act of obstruction. The two acts were in direct conflict with one another. What do you make of that, Detective?"

"What do I make of that?" Collier swallowed nervously. "I don't know. I'm not an expert in criminal psychology..."

"Why don't you take a guess?" Reid suggested.

"Um, OK..." Collier fidgeted in his chair. "If I had to guess, I'd say that the UnSub obstructed the evidence after I requested the consult."

"Yes, exactly," Reid said. "Somehow, the UnSub found out that you had requested the consult. That was why he took steps to obstruct the evidence. You requested the consult. Why? Because you wanted to stop the UnSub. You wanted to catch him. He obstructed the evidence. Why? Because he wanted to save the UnSub. He didn't want to be caught."

"But I only requested the consult to establish the incidents as accidents," Collier said.

"Yes, but even so, you must have had your suspicions about the incidents," Reid argued. "You must have considered the possibility of foul play. When you requested the consult, a part of you must have wanted to stop the UnSub. In the end, that part of you turned out to be right. Not only right, but your act of promotion led directly to his act of obstruction."

"But the act of obstruction...You said earlier that it evolved the UnSub from impulse-driven predator to purpose-driven predator. How did that happen?" Collier asked.

"It evolved the UnSub through empowerment," Reid explained. "Let me give you an example. Let's suppose that I'm him and you're you. I start out killing on impulse. I kill the first two victims on impulse. You consider the crimes to be accidents. To make sure, you request a consult from the BAU. In response, I obstruct the evidence. I do it on impulse. Well, actually, maybe not entirely on impulse. Maybe on purpose too. I do it on impulse and on purpose. Remember the example of the muggers? Obstructing the evidence is like killing the second mugger. Did I kill the second mugger on impulse or on purpose? I'm not sure...Maybe 50-50. After I kill the mugger, I realize that I _can_ kill. After I obstruct the evidence, I realize that I _can_ obstruct. I can kill, _then_ obstruct. The realization is empowering. It shifts the balance of power away from you and towards me. I evolve as a killer. I evolve from shooting people on impulse to shooting people on purpose. In that case, the evolution was astonishingly fast. In this case, the evolution was slower. In either case, due to empowerment, I evolve from impulse-driven predator to purpose-driven predator, from subconscious intent to conscious intent, regardless of whether the evolution took days or seconds. Let's extend the chain of reasoning. Let's suppose that one day, I realize that I can obstruct the evidence as much as I want. I control all the information that comes in and goes out. Everything passes through my mind before passing through anyone else's mind. In that case, due to empowerment, I evolve from intent to motive. I evolve out of the profile of 'The Novice Killer' and into some other profile. The act of empowerment evolves me as a killer. If the killer starts, builds, and completes profiles faster than the profiler, then the profiler will never catch the killer."

"So that was why the UnSub killed the third victim? He evolved, so he killed her on purpose?" Collier extended the chain of reasoning.

"Yes, he killed Melody Sanders, knowing full well that the authorities would consider her death to be neither accident or suicide," Reid said. "Sanders was killed on the 18th. On the 18th, a non-criminal investigation turned into a criminal investigation. I'm confused. Why didn't you request our assistance that day?"

"Melody Sanders was reported missing on the 18th, but her body wasn't found until the 22nd, the following Monday," Collier explained. "Initially, her case was considered a missing persons case. The 22nd was the day that Angelina Alvarez went missing. Grace...Detective Dylan requested federal assistance the next day, after Alvarez was reported missing but before her body was recovered from the river."

"Ah, that makes sense," Reid nodded. "I received two messages from Detective Dylan on Tuesday, November 23. However, I...The BAU was busy completing another profile at the time. I wasn't free to call Detective Dylan until the next day, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. That was when she sent me additional information, including the CCTV footage, from the case."

"She sent you the CCTV footage?" Collier asked. "But we already analyzed...Oh, that was when you found out about the, uh, obstruction? You analyzed the footage, and..."

"No, our tech analyzed the footage. I only watched it. We discovered the discrepancies in the videos," Reid said. "For footage from the 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, and 12th - the evenings on which the UnSub prowled the falls - the last frame of one video didn't match up with the first frame of the next video."

"Oh, um...I don't know why that..." Collier paused, then continued. "Isn't CCTV footage analyzed automatically? Our software didn't pick up either of the victims in the videos from those days, from the time around sunset when the crimes were committed."

"Neither did ours," Reid said. "But as I said, facial recognition software cannot match the visual cortex of the human brain. Don't worry, Detective, I didn't sit down and watch hours and hours of footage at normal speed. Here, let me show you how I did it."

Turning to the laptop, Reid opened a file and played a video at maximum speed. On fast forward, the frames whizzed by, and the video that would normally have taken several hours to play took several minutes instead. Reid watched videos in the same way that he read books, his subconscious mind processing the visual channel at 11 million bits per second as his eyes fixated upon the screen. Afterwards, for further analysis, he could extract individual frames from the videos of CCTV footage, just as he could extract individual quotes from the works of David Rossi.

"You can...Can you...Can you really watch that fast?" Collier stared at Reid as Reid stared at the screen.

"Yes, I can really watch that fast," Reid answered, his eyes still glued to the screen. "When we first opened the files and discovered the discrepancies, we were surprised that the UnSub hadn't done a better job editing the videos. If I were him, I would have done a much better job editing the videos. At the very least, I would have made sure that the last frame of one video matched up to the first frame of the next video. I can't quite wrap my head around why he didn't..." he shook his head in confusion.

"Why he didn't what?" Collier prompted anxiously.

"Why he didn't do a better job editing the videos," Reid replied. "With his job and all, I would have expected him to have obstructed the evidence more skillfully. To have played smarter, so to speak..."

"What...What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, if Technical Analyst Terrence Wood was the one who modified the CCTV footage, then don't you think that he should have done a better job editing the videos?" Reid asked. "With his technical expertise and all..."

"Oh!" Collier sighed. "Yeah, I agree. I completely agree. A tech should have done a better job editing the videos. I don't know why he didn't. Maybe he was in a hurry that night? Maybe he was flustered that night?"

"Maybe," Reid considered. "According to the files, he edited all the videos at the same time on the same day. 11/15/2010, 22:18. Did you see anyone in the CCTV control room during your shift that night?"

"Yeah, I passed by there and thought I saw someone in the room, but it was dark, so I couldn't tell who it was," Collier said. "Even at night, people are constantly coming and going at the police station, so I didn't give it another thought."

"No, you wouldn't have," Reid said. "Tell me, Detective, how well do you know Terrence Wood?"

"He's the person of interest that the other agents are monitoring overnight?" Collier asked.

"Yes, we're officially calling him a person of interest, but unofficially, in our minds, we're considering him to be the UnSub," Reid answered in a confidential tone.

"I don't know much about him," Collier said. "He's quiet, shy, nerdy. Middle-aged, but unmarried. No kids. Lives alone in an apartment not far from the station. Handles most of our technical issues here. Does a really thorough job with database searches. Basically, anytime we want to find out anything about anyone, we go to him for information."

"Sounds like our tech," Reid said. "Knowing techs in general, knowing how competent they are and how obsessive they can be about their software, from development to deployment to employment, I can't get past the fact that the UnSub did such a poor job editing the videos. There's only one possible explanation for his behavior."

"What's that?" Collier asked.

"He wants to be caught," Reid answered.

"He wants to be caught? Then why obstruct the evidence at all?" Collier asked. "If he wants to be caught, then he can just turn himself in at work."

"Well, he's conflicted," Reid said. "A part of him, the super-ego, wants to be caught, so he can be judged and punished for his crimes. But another part of him, the id, will stop at nothing to save himself from any and all of the consequences - death, imprisonment, whatever - of his behaviors. Since Monday, November 15, the two parts have been in conflict. As of today, the two parts are still in conflict."

"How so?" Collier asked. "He went on to kill two more victims after the 15th. Didn't the id win out?"

"Yes, the id was prevalent from the 15th through the 22nd," Reid answered. "But after that? After that, the conflict returned. On the 23rd, you...no...Detective Dylan requested federal assistance from the BAU. The BAU responded positively on the 24th. Detective Dylan sent over reams of information about the case, including the CCTV footage. Wood must have known about that."

"So?"

"So he obstructed the evidence again," Reid said. "Detective Dylan's request for assistance was another act of promotion. Again, you sought to stop the killer, and again, he sought to save the killer. The UnSub responded with another act of obstruction. We don't have evidence of the obstruction...yet. But the very fact that we're sitting here talking about the obstruction suggests that the obstruction was ultimately unsuccessful. Sooner or later, we'll find out. We discovered the discrepancies in the videos. Somewhere else, there are discrepancies that haven't been discovered yet. Based on your information about the technical competence of your tech, I believe that the UnSub wants to be caught. That's why he did such a poor job editing the videos. He probably did a poor job doing whatever else he did to obstruct the evidence again. If successful acts of obstruction are acts of empowerment, then unsuccessful acts of obstruction are acts of...uh, I guess, um...depowerment. The UnSub wants to be caught. In fact, I believe that all serial killers have a deep-seated desire to be caught."

"Why would they want to be caught?" Collier asked.

"So their questions can be answered," Reid replied. "So they can be told, by the authorities, why they did what they did. One time, during a VICAP interview, I spent thirteen minutes telling a serial killer why he committed his crimes. Chester Hardwicke was so absorbed in my psychoanalysis of him that he forgot to kill me and my boss, Agent Hotchner, as he had planned to do during the period of time when we were all trapped in an interrogation room together. My lecture, a combination of knowledge and analysis, engaged and distracted him to such an extent that he made the mistake of forgetting to kill us. As a result, he missed out on his last chance at living before his scheduled execution. I guess my tangents and details are good for something after all."

"I can see why he would be interested in your insight," Collier said. "I mean, with everything you know about the motives and intents of serial killers, their behavior and psychology, why they do what they do..."

"But I don't really know why they do what they do," Reid said. "I've been considering the questions for some time now, but so far, I haven't figured out the answers. For me, it's an ongoing research project to figure out the answers. It helps that all the questions boil down to the same question with the same answer."

"How had it come to this?" Collier suggested.

"Exactly!" Reid nodded emphatically. "How _had_ it come to this? Look, I'm a killer. I killed all these people. Why did I kill them? I felt an urge to kill, so I killed. But why did I feel an urge to kill? I don't know. It was an inexplicable urge. Is there something wrong with me? Yes, there is something fundamentally wrong with me. Is that a satisfying answer? No, that's not satisfying at all. That's an escape from the question, not an answer to the question. I've gotta answer the question! How am I going to answer the question? Maybe I can kill again! Will I be able to answer the question if I kill again? After I kill again, will I wake up knowing the answer? Maybe I can continue to kill until I find out the answer. That gives me a motive. A motive is a reason to kill. Why am I going to kill? I'm going to kill, so I can find out why I killed. I've killed before, so it's not a big deal for me to kill again. I'm going to find out the answer, any way I can. No one else can tell me the answer, so I've gotta find out for myself. How am I going to find out the answer?" Reid asked.

"Kill," Collier answered.

"Why am I killing?" Reid asked.

"To find out the answer," Collier replied.

"Exactly," Reid nodded.

He sighed, lowered his eyes to the table, and tapped his fingers against the wood grain surface, as if he had suddenly become absorbed in a new train of thought that had barreled into the station to push away the old train of thought. He sat in silence, waiting for Collier to respond.

"Can the killer, uh, stop killing?" Collier responded.

"No, not normally," Reid answered. "Not unless we catch him and put him away. Other than that, there's only one scenario in which he stops."

"What's that?" Collier asked eagerly.

"In this scenario, he stops killing on his own," Reid said. "He feels an urge stronger than the urge to kill."

"What's stronger than the urge to kill?" Collier asked.

"The urge to save," Reid replied. "The urge to save everyone else from him. In this scenario, he kills one more time, but this time, his victim is himself. He kills one to save many. He kills himself to save others...through the goodness of his heart. In a way, the final murder is an act of love."

"Oh," Collier glanced away, disappointed.

"I call this profile 'The Angel'," Reid said. "It can be contrasted with its alternate profile, 'The Devil'. Within one profile, the killer continues to kill, over and over and over again, with whatever motive he comes up with to justify his intent. Within the other, he kills one more time. Victimology? Himself. M.O.? Any. Motive? Save others. Intent? Kill himself. Conscious or subconscious? Conscious. Profile? 'The Angel'. The killer stops himself."

"What if he doesn't want to kill himself?" Collier asked softly.

"Then he kills others," Reid said. "He kills until we catch him and put him away. For most serial killers, it's only a matter of time before we catch them and put them away. In most cases, the story goes like this. I'm a serial killer. I kill, but at the same time, I have a deep-seated desire to be caught. I'm conflicted. I'm conflicted enough to leave evidence behind, either the evidence itself or the obstruction of the evidence, which is evidence in and of itself. The evidence helps the authorities catch me and put me away. I spend the rest of my life in prison, wondering why I did what I did. I ask the authorities for the answer. They don't know. They know less than I know, because they're profilers, not killers. I'm disappointed. I'm stuck. I'm stuck for life in prison, where I can neither kill or find out why I killed. It's a miserable existence, and looking back, I wish that I had chosen the other profile instead."

"'The Angel' over 'The Devil'?" Collier whispered.

"Yes," Reid answered. "'The Angel' vs. 'The Devil'. A killer kills, himself or others. It's his choice."

"Is there another way?" Collier asked. "Can he, uh, can he...Can he turn himself in?"

"He can," Reid replied. "Actually, that would be preferable to any other option, but in this case, I don't see him doing it."

"Why's that?"

"As you said, the UnSub is quiet, shy, nerdy. He lives alone, is unmarried, has no kids. He's middle-aged, so his parents may or may not be alive. He sounds like an introvert, someone who doesn't have many friends, someone who doesn't make friends easily. Work is probably all he has. His colleagues _are_ his friends. His personal and professional relationships are the same. His friends and colleagues at work are his only connections to the world outside himself. They're all he has. He'd have to give up those connections if he turned himself in. He'd have to live, knowing that his former friends and colleagues knew the truth about him...about his genuine self. I don't think he'll ever turn himself in. He doesn't want anyone to find out about his genuine self. He hates his genuine self. If they find out about him, then they'll hate him too. He's scared to lose them. He's scared in general. Maybe he'll try to take his own life. Maybe he'll wait for them to catch him. If one fails, then he's got the other. It's his choice."

"'The Angel' vs. 'The Devil'?" Collier asked.

"'The Angel' vs. 'The Devil'," Reid concluded.

At the conclusion, Collier stood up to exit the room.

"Sorry, Doc," Collier said. "Gotta go take a bathroom break. And, uh, I might as well check on your colleagues while I'm at it. And, um, I've gotta go release that psycho. That guy I picked up, remember? You'll probably wanna call it a day soon. I'll see you later...Maybe in the morning?"

"Sure, Detective," Reid nodded. "I'll see you in the morning. By the way, thanks for entertaining my ideas. I know I can be long-winded and boring..."

"No problem, Dr. Reid," Collier dismissed the concerns. "I really enjoyed your insight. Your insight has been really helpful to me," he nodded, waved, and exited the room.

Alone in the conference room, Reid swiveled his chair in circles, waiting for Hotch and Rossi to return from their useless activities. He checked the laptop to make sure that it, its camera, and its microphone had recorded the entire interrogation. In the video editor, he opened the file. Without modifying the footage, he closed the file. In the video player, he opened the file. He played the video, watching the interrogation footage in the same way that he had watched the CCTV footage. On fast forward, the visual channel was rich, vibrant, and informative. On fast forward, the auditory channel was a mess. Through the speakers, Reid and the UnSub sounded like hyperactive chipmunks rehearsing one of the Shakespearean tragedies that a roomful of ringtailed lemurs had typed up in the deep dark depths of someone's mother's basement.

"No matter," Reid thought as he stretched out his legs, then put his feet up on a chair.

As long as the footage contained the units of video and audio in which the UnSub had made his confession, then Hotch and Rossi could use it to build 'The Fallen Angel' for themselves. Reid could stop playing dumb, in front of his team or any other. In the evening, "The Absent-Minded Professor" had done his duty. In the morning, it would be time for "The Mad Scientist" to act.

* * *

Happy Phriday! These 7,500 words of psychopathy brought to you by acetaminophen under its trade name Tylenol.

Next up: Hotch and Rossi build "The Fallen Angel" for themselves. What about the fifth crime? Why hasn't it been mentioned since this case started? Also, remember the last time Reid asked someone "Good or bad?" Remember what happened to that person?

In the far future: "The Absent-Minded Professor" and "The Mad Scientist", both integral parts of Reid's character, will be played out in excruciating detail and with all-encompassing thoroughness in future stories of this series, starting with "Gigascale".


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

While waiting for Hotch and Rossi to return, Reid reached into his messenger bag, retrieved a small red apple, and polished it on his shirt tail. In one fell swoop, he bit into the skin and through the flesh to reach the core. He chewed and swallowed as he built the profile of Technical Analyst Terrence Wood. If everything went according to plan, then "The Fallen Man" would lead directly into "The Fallen Angel". It would be as if Hotch and Rossi had built the profile for themselves. During the process, all Reid had to do was to suppress laughter, for which the urge to do so would be another step, like littering, in the progression of his fall from grace.

In the Bible were described two falls from grace - the Fall of Man and the Fall of Satan. In the chronology, the Fall of Satan came before the Fall of Man, but in the chronicle, the Fall of Man came before the Fall of Satan.

In the Book of Genesis, mankind fell from a state of innocence to a state of guilt when Eve, tempted by the Serpent, ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and Adam, tempted by Eve, ate the same fruit from the same tree. As punishment for their crimes, Adam and Eve were cast out of the Garden of Eden to make their livelihoods on Earth. On Earth, Adam was to till the fields by the sweat of his brow, Eve was to bear children in great pain, and Adam, Eve, and all their descendants, being dust, were to return to dust after all the days of their lives had passed. For original sin, the punishment was death, but after death, there would be salvation, and all that were well would end well.

The Serpent was punished as well, cursed to go upon his belly and eat dust for all the days of his life.

"Reid! Earth to Reid!" came the sound of a disembodied voice from an undetermined location.

At the voice, Reid snapped his head up from the apple. He darted his eyes into every corner of the room before triangulating the giggles to the laptop, within which Garcia had reappeared to laugh at, then with, him.

"Sorry, Garcia!" Reid laughed at himself. "I guess I was sleeping with my eyes open."

"Yeah, you were sleeping with your eyes open alright," Garcia giggled further. "You were also eating without chewing. You were biting off teeny-tiny pieces of that apple and swallowing them whole. I've been watching you do it for minutes now. You looked both cute and freaky at the same time. It was both reptilian and fuzzy-wuzzy. But I had to wake you up when I saw you bite off this really humongous piece, like a quarter of the apple. I was afraid you'd choke on it."

"Oh, thanks, Garcia," Reid chewed and swallowed the really humongous piece. "I guess you saved my life there."

"You guess? You know!" Garcia reached around to pat herself on the back. "I _did_ save your life there! So what does this mean, Dr. Reid? Aren't you dying to analyze the stupendous consequences of this momentous event? When you're ready, you can present, to me, the indubitably brilliant conclusions of your indubitably brilliant analyses. I lie in wait..."

"You're my hero, Garcia," Reid analyzed and concluded.

"I knew you'd see the light one day!" Garcia grinned.

"So I have," Reid grinned back, relaxing in the warmth and comfort of Garcia's attentions. "So, uh, Garcia, My Hero, do you have anything new for us?"

"Not new, but something," Garcia replied. "Basically, I just popped back in to say that I opened up every video from everyday, and I mean every _single_ video from every _single_ day, between the 8th and the 22nd, and I didn't discover any other discrepancies in the CCTV footage. For all the rest of the footage, the last frame of one video matched up with the first frame of the next video. I also checked the timestamps on the files. The operating system keeps track of when files are first created and last modified. For the modified footage, 'last modified' was the same as 'first created'. I'm guessing that the UnSub modified the footage at home or at work or wherever, deleted the original files, and saved the modified files under the same names, with the original timestamps in the filenames. Do you know what this means, Dr. Reid?"

"What does this mean?" Reid played dumb.

"This means, Dear Luddite, that we can recover the original footage from the hard drive of the storage server!" Garcia answered triumphantly. "As all cyber-criminals are or should be aware, deleted files aren't truly deleted unless you run them through a file shredding program, or even better, reformat the entire hard drive to wipe everything clean. The UnSub did such a poor job editing the videos that even I, Little Miss Non-Profiler, can guess that he wasn't competent or careful enough to shred the deleted files. All you've gotta do is to get a tech, preferably one without murderous impulses or homicidal purposes, to retrieve the hard drive from the storage server and restore the files using a data recovery program. It might take awhile, but it should work, as long as the hard drive is undamaged, which it is."

"So we can get our hands on the original CCTV footage this way?" Reid asked.

"Yep! And most importantly, your eyeballs," Garcia replied.

"Wow, thanks, Garcia, this is a huge breakthrough," Reid waved the apple in excitement. "Do you have anything else for us?" he gazed eagerly into the laptop.

"Tsk, tsk," Garcia waggled her finger through the screen. "Don't you think you're getting a little greedy? Greed is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, you know. Believe me, My Angel, you don't want to get caught up in those! Here, let me help you right the wrong. What you should have said was, 'Garcia, My Hero, I have something new for you.' This is called reciprocity, or 'Tit For Tat'. Ohh, that sounds kinda..." she gazed off in perversion.

"New for you?" Reid considered. "Um, well, the detective came by and brought in a guy who was harassing a group of tourists, offering to push one of them down the falls. Hotch and Rossi went off to interview him a little while ago. They should be back soon. Morgan and Prentiss are still staking out the UnSub's apartment."

"And yourself?" Garcia asked.

"I talked to the detective, uh, Detective Scott Collier," Reid answered. "Mostly, I filled him in about the CCTV footage, and we both wondered why the UnSub had done such a poor job editing the videos. We wondered, because he's a tech, just like you, so we had expected him to..."

"Yeah, it doesn't make any sense to me either!" Garcia finished. "I can't believe that an UnSub would be so careless about the whole thing. About obstructing the evidence, I mean. But you know what's even more unbelievable? That a tech would be so incompetent! He's reflecting poorly upon all techs, and that's unacceptable in my book! You know what else I've been doing? Digging up dirt, or trying to dig up dirt, on this Terrence Wood guy. So far, nothing. No criminal record. Regular voter. Excellent credit. I don't get it. Why the heck would a tech suddenly snap and start killing people?"

"Actually, about that," Reid saw an opening and stepped through. "I've been wondering the same thing, and while I was talking to Detective Collier, I came up with a profile of sorts."

"Oh, do tell, Hyperthreading Overclocker!" Garcia wiggled in anticipation.

"It sounds, um, kind of, uh, crazy?" Reid hesitated.

"Tell, Reid, tell," Garcia pointed through the screen. "You tease. You tell."

"OK, well, um, I call this profile 'The Fallen Man'," Reid began the profile.

"Ohh, 'The Fallen Man'," Garcia ohhed.

"Do you know the story of Adam and Eve?" Reid asked. "The story of 'The Fall of Man' from the Bible?"

"Ahh, 'The Fall of Man'," Garcia ahhed.

"According to the profile, Terrence Wood is kind of like Adam and Eve," Reid said.

"Terrence Wood is kind of like Adam and Eve," Garcia repeated the words, then frowned up at a ceiling far, far away. "Yeah, obviously! Why didn't I think of that?"

"You're mocking me, Garcia," Reid complained.

"Oops, sorry, go on, go on," Garcia urged him on.

"In the Book of Genesis, Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil," Reid went on. "Among all the trees in the Garden of Eden, God had forbidden Adam and Eve to eat from that particular tree, but Adam and Eve ate from that tree anyway."

"Um, I'm not very religious," Garcia said.

"Well, you don't have to be religious to appreciate the story," Reid said. "It's a universal story. In the Judeo-Christian ethic, it's called 'The Fall of Man'. In Greek mythology, it's called 'Pandora's Box'. In Chinese mythology, it's...Never mind, uh, so whether Pandora opened the box or Adam and Eve ate the fruit or whoever did whatever, what was the significance of the act?"

"The significance for whoever did whatever? Well, duh, they gained knowledge of good and evil," Garcia answered.

"Yes," Reid nodded. "Prior to eating the fruit, Adam and Eve had lived in a state of innocence. In Genesis 2:25, it was stated that they had looked upon each other in their nakedness and were not ashamed."

"Mmm, nakedness!" Garcia exclaimed.

"Uh, anyway, once Adam and Eve ate the fruit, they lost their innocence," Reid ignored the comment. "And, um, covered themselves up with fig leaves."

"Damn fig leaves!" Garcia exclaimed again.

"So, uh, Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit, and as a result, they gained knowledge of good and evil," Reid ignored the comment again. "But why did they eat the fruit in the first place?"

"Wasn't there a snake involved in all of this?" Garcia asked. "A serpent who tempted Eve to eat the apple? Eve ate the apple, then gave it to Adam, and Adam ate it too."

"Well, the forbidden fruit may or may not have been an apple," Reid said. "Apples originated in Central Asia, but the Garden of Eden is believed to have been located in the Middle East. Some theological scholars have speculated that the forbidden fruit may have been a grape, which...Oh, um, sorry for the tangent...Anyway, yes, the Serpent tempted Eve, then Adam, into eating the forbidden fruit. The Serpent promised that the fruit would give them wisdom."

"It did, didn't it?" Garcia asked. "They gained knowledge of good and evil?"

"Sort of," Reid said. "They gained knowledge of good and evil, and in so doing, elevated themselves to the level of the angels, who had been created knowing good and evil. However, what Adam and Eve had really wanted was wisdom. They had really wanted to elevate themselves to the level of God. As a result, they fell from grace."

"All because they wanted wisdom?" Garcia asked.

"All because they gave in to temptation and disobeyed God," Reid explained. "According to the majority of Christian interpretations, the eating of the fruit was an act of guilty disobedience that brought sinfulness into human nature. After 'The Fall of Man', all humans were born into original sin. Original sin and sinfulness both describe the capacity or tendency of humans to sin, but original sin is used in reference to all humans, while sinfulness is used in reference to individual humans."

"Okaaaaaaay..." Garcia nodded slowly.

"So Terrence Wood is kind of like Adam and Eve before and after 'The Fall of Man'," Reid said. "Think about what he does all the time. Detective Collier tells me that he's quiet, shy, nerdy. Unmarried, no kids, lives alone. Basically, he comes to work, then goes home, then comes to work again."

"Like we all do," Garcia said.

"Right, but what does he do at work? Everyday, Technical Analyst Terrence Wood comes to work at the police station. He's a tech, so he does all the technical stuff for the officers. He runs database searches on criminals and victims. He reads accounts of crimes. He stares at crime scene photos. He indulges in knowledge of good and evil. He accumulates experience of good and evil. However, no matter how graphic the photos or how detailed the accounts, the knowledge and experience are indirect. Wood is a tech, not an officer. Unlike the officers, he has no direct knowledge of good and evil, no direct experience of good and evil. Nor does he have any power over good and evil, neither the power to protect people from evil or the power to enforce good in society. In biblical terms, he's a man, not an angel."

"So he does my job," Garcia said. "I knew that already."

"Right, but what happens after years of doing your job, his job? After years of doing his duties, he feels an urge to gain more knowledge, more experience, more direct knowledge and experience. He feels an urge to eat the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. First, he wants to visit the crime scenes and examine the evidence. Next, he wants to interview the criminals and victims. Then, he wants to use the handcuffs and shoot the guns. Finally, he wants to be like the officers, to protect and enforce, to wield power over good and evil as the angels do for God. It's a gradual progression from one step to another. Deep down, he just wants to wield power in general. Specifically, he wants to wield power over life and death, the power that belongs to God and God alone. That's the ultimate knowledge, the ultimate experience, the ultimate power. What's it like to hold life and death in your own hands? He wonders. In his mind, it's another gradual progression from one step to another. First, what's it like to be an officer? He can imagine that, because he works with officers everyday. But then, what's it like to be a killer? He can't imagine that. He feels an urge to find out. He wants to find out for himself. There's only one way to find out. He knows what it is. It's been staring him in the face for a long time. It's been growing in his mind for almost as long. It tempts him. He gives in to temptation. He kills."

"So his job causes him to snap and kill?" Garcia gaped.

"Well, I'm sure that there are other contributing factors that we don't know about and can't guess at, but yes, killing people is his way of eating the forbidden fruit that he's stared at, but not tasted, during his career as a tech," Reid said. "It's like constantly staring at someone doing something that you wouldn't normally do. Maybe something dangerous like base jumping or cliff diving. Sooner or later, if you've been staring at it long enough, then you're going to want to do it too."

"Reid?" Garcia whispered softly. "You do realize one thing, don't you?"

"What?" Reid asked. "What thing?"

"You're profiling _me_!" Garcia screeched. "That's a profile of _me_!"

"No, I'm profiling Terrence Wood," Reid argued. "Terrence Wood..."

"Is like _me_ on a lesser scale!" Garcia cut him off. "He runs database searches on vagrants, burglars, and drug dealers. I run database searches on serial killers! He reads accounts of domestic violence and child abuse. I read accounts of murder! He stares at crime scene photos from that one time when that nice guy we all knew and loved shot and injured his ex-girlfriend in a drunken rage. I stare at crime scene photos from those twenty times when that psychopathic serial killer with narcissistic personality disorder and Zzyzx Syndrome flayed, eviscerated, and decapitated each of his twenty blonde-haired blue-eyed victims! Like him, I have knowledge, indirect, of good and evil! I have experience, indirect, of good and evil! I have power, none, over good and evil! I'm going to snap and kill!"

"No, no, no!" Reid waved his hands back and forth in front of the laptop. "No, that's not what I meant! That's not what I meant at all! Forget the profile! Forget it! It doesn't make any sense..."

"Forget what?" Rossi entered the room, plopped himself into a chair, and tapped Reid on the shoulder. "What doesn't make any sense?"

"Nothing...Nothing doesn't make..." Reid started, but Garcia interrupted, "Dr. Reid here has just profiled Terrence Wood, and by association, _me_, into a serial killer!"

"You're going to have to explain that one, Reid," Hotch entered the room behind Rossi.

"There's nothing to explain. It's a profile that doesn't make..." Reid started again, but Garcia interrupted again, "Let _me_ explain!"

"Go ahead, Garcia. Explain, but make it quick," Hotch gestured for Garcia to continue.

Garcia continued. As she explained the profile, Reid finished the apple, chucked the core towards the wastebasket, missed, and had to slither out of his chair, across the floor, and into the corner to right the wrong. In the auditory channel, he tuned out of the conversation. In the visual channel, he stared down at the floor, not caring to record, to his undeletable files on his unreformatable hard drive, the wild gesticulating in the laptop or the staring and frowning in the room. Everything had gone according to plan, so Reid got to, alternately, sit on his hands and twiddle his thumbs, while Garcia had to explain "The Fallen Man". If Hotch and Rossi didn't like the profile, then they would attribute the blame, subconsciously, half to one and half to the other, when the blame was attributable to one and one alone. This way, the idea that was Reid's and Reid's alone would appear to belong to both Reid and Garcia. In the past ten minutes, what Reid had wrought was a working demonstration of the _ad hominem_ logical fallacy, commonly known as "shooting the messenger". It was too bad that the messenger had to be shot, but the important thing was that the message be delivered. As for the message itself, it didn't even have to be the same as the one from the Mouth of God. The angels, knowing good and evil and right and wrong, could employ another act of logic to extend the chain of reasoning for themselves.

"So," Rossi looked up from the laptop. "'The Fallen Man', huh?"

"A profile of yours truly," Garcia said, calmly for the first time in several minutes.

"Well, it's creative, I'll give you that," Hotch remarked. "But I'm not sure how it helps us at this stage. Better to stick to the evidence for now. Reid, what did you learn from the detective?"

"Also, Reid, what did you do to the detective?" Rossi asked. "When he came in to check on us, he looked...Hotch, how would you say he looked?"

"Shell-shocked," Hotch replied.

"Yes, shell-shocked," Rossi repeated. "What did you talk about, Reid? What did you say to traumatize Detective Scott Collier?"

"I didn't say any...Oh, uh, I guess I did say a lot of things that could have, um, disturbed him," Reid reflected. "You know what? After he left the room, I noticed that the laptop had recorded the entire int...uh, conversation. The video's on there, if you want to watch it. In the meantime, I can get coffee and snacks, if anyone wants any."

"I'm going to need both, thanks," Rossi said. "Coffee, black, no bells and whistles. Snack, snack...Everything's a day old and nasty by now...Get me whatever you get yourself from the vending machine."

"Hotch?" Reid asked.

"No, thank you," Hotch replied. "Is this the video in the player here?" he clicked on the video player.

"Yeah, that's the one," Reid said. "Here, let me just..." he hit play, turned away from his colleagues as they turned towards the laptop, and exited the room.

Outside, in the hallway, he suppressed an urge to laugh. He coughed, then coughed again, the coughs covering up the laughs that threatened to bubble out of his lungs. Slowly, he made his way into the kitchen. More slowly, he poured two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for Rossi, and added several spoonfuls of sugar to his own cup. Within the cup, he swirled the spoon in both directions - prograde and retrograde. He stared at his reflection in the black liquid that reflected nothing. Looking closer, he saw that it reflected something. It reflected his own face upon its dark filmy surface. He stuck his tongue out at his reflection and considered his choices from the vending machine. At the same time, he wondered if his colleagues would be able to make sense of the interrogation. He was confident that they would.

In the vending machine, after he had inserted the bill and pressed the button, the Kit Kat bar stuck on the dispensers. Instantly, he felt a white-hot rage shoot through his chest, took a deep breath to calm himself, and inserted another bill and pressed the same button. The dispensing mechanism whizzed and whirred. The first Kit Kat bar dropped into the bin, but the second Kit Kat bar stuck on the dispensers. In response, he closed his eyes, took another deep breath, and opened his eyes to look around the room, around the corner, and up and down the hallway outside. Confident that no eyeballs and eardrums were within immediate range of the visual and auditory broadcasts, he channeled all his negative emotions and aggressive impulses into a series of kicks, sharp and snappy, that did their duty to dislodge the Kit Kat bar from the dispensers. With a satisfying plop, the second Kit Kat bar dropped into the bin. With a satisfied smile, Reid retrieved both. For several more minutes, he dawdled in the vicinity of the vending machine before picking up the two cups of coffee and delivering them, along with the two candy bars, to his colleagues, glutton and not, in the conference room down the hall.

"Go back, go back," Rossi directed Hotch as Reid entered the room. "Not there, not that part...The part about the impulse-driven and purpose-driven predators...There, that part..."

"On Monday and Tuesday, he encounters no victims," came the sound of Collier's voice from the laptop. "On Wednesday, he encounters a victim and pushes him down the falls. On Thursday, he encounters a victim and pushes him down the falls. On Friday, he encounters no victims. The next Monday, he cuts himself out of the CCTV footage from the previous Monday through Friday. That's the act of..."

"Stop! Stop right there!" Rossi ordered. "Did you hear that? Did you hear what I heard? Are you hearing what I'm hearing?"

"Yes," Hotch nodded stoically. "'The next Monday, he cuts himself out of the CCTV footage from the previous Monday through Friday.' 'The next Monday'? How did Detective Collier know that the footage had been modified on Monday, November 15, if he didn't even know, before Reid told him, that the footage had been modified at all?"

"Oh good, Reid's back," Rossi glanced up to notice Reid returning to his seat. He accepted the coffee and candy before continuing, "Reid, do you remember telling the detective, at any point during the conversation, that the CCTV footage had been modified on Monday, November 15?"

"Uh, well..." Reid replayed the conversation in his mind. "First, I told him that the footage had been modified. Then, I explained to him about the impulse-driven and purpose-driven predators. He asked me a lot of questions about those, so I explained them for quite awhile. But then, he still didn't understand the difference between conscious and subconscious intent, so I gave him an example of those. After that, he applied the example to the case, and he said...He, he, he said that the footage had been modified on the 15th! 'The next Monday'! He shouldn't have known that! I didn't tell him that! I said that the footage had been modified after the first two crimes, but I didn't say anything about the exact date! The exact date could have been any day between then and now!"

"Exactly!" Rossi slapped his hand against the table.

"There's another part that bothers me," Hotch fiddled with the video player. "One little part when he says that the footage was modified that night..."

"A tech should have done a better job editing the videos," came the sound of Collier's voice. "I don't know why he didn't. Maybe he was in a hurry that night? Maybe he was flustered that night?"

"Maybe," came the sound of Reid's voice. "According to the files, he edited all the videos at the same time on the same day. 11/15/2010, 22:18. Did you see anyone in the CCTV control room during your shift that night?"

"'That night'!" Rossi pointed in excitement at the screen. "How did he know that the tech had modified the footage that night? Reid, you didn't tell him the exact date and time until right then, until after he had already guessed both the date and the time of day when the footage was modified. Garcia, didn't you say that Terrence Wood normally worked during the day?"

"Yes, sir!" Garcia answered quickly. "But that night, the night of the 15th, Wood worked a night shift, and so did Collier, who works a night shift every Monday."

"Collier must have known that we had suspected Wood. Dave, do you remember what he said when he first came in?" Hotch asked Rossi.

"Do I remember, do I remember...Why would I need to remember?" Rossi frowned. "Reid, what did Collier say when he first came in?"

"After his speech about picking up the guy at the falls," Hotch said.

"That speech sounded almost like a prepared speech," Rossi remarked. "All that crap about the residents and the media and the economy and the Mayor...Anyway, Reid?"

"He asked us if we had done a psychoanalysis of the UnSub," Reid recalled. "I said no, but that we had identified a person of interest and that Morgan and Prentiss were monitoring him overnight."

"No, you didn't say 'him'," Hotch corrected. "You said that we had identified a person of interest, whom Morgan and Prentiss were monitoring overnight."

"Oh, sorry, you're right," Reid said. "So after I said that, Collier asked if we had agents staking out his apartment."

"_His_ apartment!" Rossi said significantly. "His _apartment_!"

"Collier shouldn't have known that the person of interest was a he instead of a she or that he lived in an apartment instead of a house," Hotch continued. "I can easily overlook _his_ apartment. We think of most UnSubs as men. But his _apartment_? We think of most people as home owners or house dwellers, unless they live in a major city. He should have asked if we had agents staking out his _house_. That would have been the most natural thing to say, assuming that he didn't know better about the person of interest."

"Are you suggesting that Collier knew that Morgan and Prentiss were staking out Wood's apartment?" Reid asked. "Are you...You're suggesting that Collier _is_ the UnSub?"

"If Collier was the one who had modified the footage, then he may have thought that we had thought that Wood had done it instead," Hotch explained.

"Which we had," Rossi said. "Because it made the most sense, considering that Wood was the tech on duty during the night shift. Collier must have snuck in and used Wood's account to modify the footage while Wood was away from his desk."

"And it would only have taken him a minute to do so, because all he had to do was to delete the original files and replace them with the modified files," Garcia added.

"I can't believe this," Hotch shook his head. "It's hard to believe. It's harder to accept."

"And yet there's more," Rossi said. "Did you notice how calm Collier appeared when Reid first mentioned that the UnSub had obstructed the evidence?"

"Yes, he appeared utterly unsurprised," Hotch agreed. "He focused in on Reid's analysis of the UnSub rather than the astonishing fact that the UnSub had obstructed the evidence at the police station. He shifted his eyes several times between Reid and the laptop. I noticed it right away, even before I suspected anything. At the time, Reid, what was on the laptop screen?"

"Frames of video from the CCTV footage," Reid replied.

"Bingo! But his response later, when they were talking about the consult request, was totally different," Rossi continued. "He was flustered the whole time that Reid was blabbing about the act of obstruction and the act of promotion. Then, even more so when Reid was babbling about why the UnSub did such a poor job editing the videos. No offense, Reid."

"None taken," Reid said.

"But he recovered as soon as Reid indicated the tech, not him, as the UnSub," Hotch nodded. "He recovered as soon as he realized that the pressure was not on him."

"As soon as he realized that we were on the wrong track," Rossi nodded back.

"Which we were," Hotch concluded. "But not anymore. It's really hard to believe," he sighed deeply. "I can't really accept it right away. I don't want to accept it, and I don't want to believe it. But the inconsistencies in the conversation...They give us no choice but to suspect..."

"But Detective Collier was the one who had requested the consult from us," Reid argued. "Why would he request a consult for his own crimes? Then, on the same day..."

"Then, on the same day, obstruct the evidence from them?" Rossi finished. "You explained it yourself. In the video, you explained it yourself," he pushed Hotch aside to fiddle with the video player himself. "Here, take a listen."

"I can't get past the fact that the UnSub did such a poor job editing the videos," Reid said in the video. "There's only one possible explanation for his behavior."

"What's that?" Collier asked in the video.

"He wants to be caught," Reid answered in the video.

"So you think that he, or at least a part of him, _does_ want to be caught?" Reid asked. "That he _is_ conflicted?"

"Yes," Rossi replied. "Right after that, you said that the id and the super-ego were in conflict, that they had been in conflict since the 15th and were still in conflict today. He wants to be caught. He wants to avoid being caught. Both at the same time. He's conflicted."

"Garcia," Hotch said abruptly. "Did you ever get around to making up a list of people who crossed the border before and after the fifth crime, the one on the Canadian side of the river?"

"Yes, sir, I did!" Garcia nodded and typed on her keyboard. "I've just been so busy looking through these videos that I haven't gotten a chance to...Ah, here it is!" she gazed into a screen on her left. "OK, let's see. On the 25th, the day that Peter Hoffmann disappeared, also Thanksgiving Day on this side of the river...Checking, checking...Terrence Wood didn't cross the border that day, or the day after, or the day before," she scanned the lists.

"Obviously, because he's not the UnSub," Rossi said.

"But Detective Collier, first name Scott..." Garcia scanned the lists some more. "There's no Scott Collier on these lists either. Not for the 24th, 25th, or 26th."

"Shift schedule," Hotch ordered.

"Checking..." Garcia typed again. "Detective Collier worked a day shift on the 24th, had Thanksgiving Day off, then worked another day shift on the 26th."

"So he didn't cross the border at all?" Reid asked.

"That doesn't make any sense," Rossi said. "Unless...Do you think he obstructed the evidence again? Hacked into the database and expunged his name from the records? Crossing over and crossing back?"

"Ahem, hacker present!" Garcia raised a fluffy pen. "From my unlimited experience, I can tell you that it's not a piece of cake to hack into the Department of Homeland Security databases. I don't see how a guy who sucks at editing videos could possibly hack into high-security databases."

"Garcia's got a point," Hotch sighed. "So according to this information, Collier's not the UnSub. But there's so much conflicting information here. I don't understand..."

"Wait," Reid reached across the table, grabbed the laptop, and took his turn fiddling with the video player.

"Since Monday, November 15, the two parts have been in conflict," Reid said in the video. "As of today, the two parts are still in conflict."

"How so?" Collier asked in the video. "He went on to kill two more victims after the 15th. Didn't the id win out?"

"'He went on to kill _two_ more victims after the 15th," Reid said. "_Two_ more victims? Collier's been working this case since the beginning. He should know that there were _three_ more victims after the 15th - Melody Sanders, Angelina Alvarez, and Peter Hoffmann."

"What are you getting at, Reid?" Rossi asked, confused.

"OK, let's back up for a minute," Reid started over. "This whole time, during this whole conversation, what has Collier been doing?"

"Asking questions," Hotch replied. "He's been asking questions about the profile, about the specific behavior and psychology of the UnSub. He's intensely interested in your answers. He's completely absorbed in your explanations, because all your explanations are about him. Everything you're saying applies to him. You're doing a detailed psychoanalysis of him. He's completely caught up in it. He can't help himself. As you analyze his crimes, he replays them in his mind. He's so engaged and distracted that he makes mistakes. He lets slip facts that he shouldn't know. He lets slip the fact that he committed two, not three, crimes after the 15th."

"I'm sorry?" Rossi raised his hand. "Haven't we just been discussing the fifth crime? The third crime after the 15th? Peter Hoffmann?"

"The fifth crime was not a crime at all," Reid explained. "Peter Hoffmann was killed, or rather died, on the Canadian side of the river. Garcia, did Peter Hoffmann cross the border?"

"Nope!" Garcia answered immediately.

"Peter Hoffmann disappeared from Niagara Falls, Ontario and plunged to his death over the Horseshoe Falls," Reid continued. "All the other victims disappeared from Niagara Falls, New York and plunged to their deaths over the American Falls. Peter Hoffmann was not a victim. He was probably a suicide, one of the people who try, and usually succeed, to kill themselves at Niagara Falls, on both sides of the river. This happens every couple of weeks. On average, I mean," he added for accuracy, "Not every two weeks like clockwork."

"The body was recovered from the American side of the river," Hotch said. "On Friday, November 26, Collier responded to the scene. He was lucky that Peter Hoffmann had chosen to kill himself at that time. Collier included him as a victim in the series of crimes. It was an act of..."

"Obstruction," Rossi finished. "That fits in perfectly with what Reid was saying in the video about obstruction and promotion. On the 22nd, Collier killed the fourth victim. The fourth victim was reported missing on the 23rd. That was the day that Detective Dylan requested federal assistance. Collier knew that. On the 24th, Reid, you called to say that we were prioritizing the case. Collier knew that too. That was why he stopped killing. He didn't kill anyone after the 22nd. He knew that the feds were coming to investigate the case, so he decided to give it a rest, at least for awhile. Then, on the 26th, during his day shift, a body was recovered from the river. The heavens were smiling down upon him. Here was a body from the other side of the border. He designated Peter Hoffmann as a victim in the series of crimes. Detective Dylan agreed. The Canadian authorities agreed. There was no reason not to agree. If Peter Hoffmann was a victim, then the feds would have to look for the UnSub in the DHS databases. Collier didn't cross the border, so his name wasn't in the databases. Everything worked out perfectly for him. He got to obstruct the evidence again. This time, by adding to it. Again, an act of obstruction followed an act of promotion, but this time, the two acts were performed by two different people - first Dylan, then Collier. It all makes sense now."

"It makes perfect sense," Reid nodded. "As an investigator in the case, Collier was in the perfect position to obstruct the evidence - by adding to it. Let's suppose that a detective wants to commit crimes. He's a detective, so he can abuse his position to obstruct the evidence of his own crimes. There are two methods for doing so. Method Number One: Add his own crimes to another series of crimes. That buries his own crimes under a pile of other crimes. Method Number Two: Add other crimes or so-called crimes to his own series of crimes. That also buries his own crimes under a pile of other crimes. Either way, his acts of obstruction have the same effect."

"They divert attention away from him and towards someone else - an UnSub," Hotch summarized. "In the first case, the authorities focus in on the person who initiated the series. That doesn't apply here. In the second case, the authorities focus in on the people in the DHS databases. He's not one of those people. In addition, the inclusion of the fifth victim introduces a plethora of inconsistencies into the series of crimes. So many that if we had never taken the case, then the case may never have been solved. There's no way that the detectives at the local PD would have suspected one of their own."

"Just like you'd never suspect me, right?" Garcia asked. "Even though you have a profile of me now? Even though you know exactly how and why I'm going to snap and kill one day?"

"Garcia, please don't take that profile seriously," Reid held out his hands in a pleading manner. "I'm sorry I ever mentioned it. It was just a stupid spur-of-the-moment profile that made no sense."

"But it does make a crazy kind of sense," Rossi said. "Both for Terrence Wood and for Scott Collier."

"How so?" Hotch asked.

"Well, if we extend the chain of reasoning one extra step..." Rossi began, then hesitated.

"What? What step?" Garcia prompted. "You tease! You tell!"

"What if the profile wasn't called 'The Fallen Man'?" Rossi asked.

"What's it called then?" Garcia asked.

"What if the profile was called 'The Fallen Angel'?" Rossi asked. "What would you say then?"

"That you're crazy?" Garcia suggested.

"Well, I had a Catholic upbringing," Rossi defended himself.

"I see where you're going with this, Dave," Hotch said. "In the world of the profile, Wood is a man, and Collier is an angel. Collier is a police officer, a detective, a protector and enforcer, just like the angels in the Bible. Compared to Wood, Collier is closer to the crimes. He's closer to..."

"To the level of God, to use Garcia's terminology," Rossi finished. "In the same terminology, he wants to elevate himself to the level of God. He wants more direct knowledge and experience of good and evil, right and wrong, life and death. He wants to wield the power over life and death that belongs to God and God alone. What's it like to be a killer? He tries to imagine himself as a killer. He can't imagine it. He feels an urge to find out. He wants to find out for himself. There's only one way to find out, he knows what it is, and it tempts him. He gives in to temptation. He kills."

"Wow, so 'The Fallen Angel' is just like 'The Fallen Man', except it's about one of you instead of me," Garcia gloated. "You're the ones who are going to snap and kill! You're going to snap and kill before I snap and kill! Do you know what this means? By the time I snap and kill, there won't be a BAU to stop me! I'm going to get away with my crimes! Ahahahahahaha!"

"Garcia's got a point," Hotch sighed.

"Thank you, Head Hotcho!" Garcia clapped joyfully. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you! There's a way for you to put the nail in the coffin, so to speak. As I was telling Reid earlier, you can recover the original..."

Reid tuned out as Garcia explained the data recovery process. He took a sip of his coffee, now lukewarm after sitting on the table, untouched and untasted, for the duration of the conversation. He peeled open the candy wrapper, broke off a piece of the Kit Kat bar, and popped it into his mouth. Looking across the table, he noted that Rossi's coffee and candy also sat, untouched and untasted as well.

In silence, Reid stared down at the floor and considered his next move. His fingers twitched slightly. His face flushed a little. He felt his fingers twitch and his face flush. He was aware of the movements and sensations, and he knew what had created them. He no longer felt an urge to laugh. Whatever had created that urge had vanished to be replaced by something else that had created another urge. As he stared down at the floor, all Reid felt was a gnawing sense of shame. He was ashamed, because having come up with and carried out the plan, everything had gone according to plan.

Everything had gone according to plan. For themselves, Hotch and Rossi had built "The Fallen Angel". Being profilers, they had built the profile in the same way that he had eaten the apple, from the outside in - from the skin to the flesh to the core, and from the evidence to the behavior to the psychology. That was why the profile was so shallow. As expected, they had built the profile, but only at the most cursory level, from the most cursory parts, with the most cursory understanding, and only as an extension of an existing profile. They were profilers. It was the best that they could have done with the knowledge and experience that they had.

The existing profile, "The Fallen Man", had been built differently. It had been built by a killer. Being a killer, Reid had built the profile not in the same way that he would kill the person, from the inside out - not from the skin to the flesh to the core, but from the psychology to the behavior to the evidence. Like "The Novice Killer", "The Fallen Man" was a simple profile. It was accurate, but it was simple as simple could be.

By extension, "The Fallen Angel" was complex. It was the brain and the heart of the case. It came in two versions - the profiler's version and the killer's version. The profiler's version was shallow. The killer's version was deep, rich, vibrant, informative, all the words that described the world at large as they described the world of the profile. Between the two, the difference was that between the shadows on the wall and the people who cast them, the study of the mind and the existence as the mind, the knowledge and experience, indirect and not, of good and evil, right and wrong, life and death.

"No matter," Reid thought to himself. "It doesn't matter how deep the profile is, as long as it helps us catch the UnSub..."

At the thought, he winced and cut himself short. It was not the mention of the UnSub that bothered him. The mention of the UnSub hit close to home, because he was now used to thinking of himself as the UnSub. By now, he was so used to it that the thought no longer bothered him. He wasn't like Garcia. He wasn't going to freak out if one of his colleagues profiled him into a serial killer. He was only going to pretend to freak out, only a little and only within the confines of his profiler persona.

About the thought, what bothered him was the assumption, by his own mind, that he was still one of them. He had thought it himself. He had thought that the depth of the profile didn't matter, as long as it helped "us", including him, catch the UnSub. In his mind, he was still one of them. In reality, he still was, but in fantasy, which was, in this case, truer than reality, he knew that he should not have been.

As his colleagues conversed with each other, Reid replayed the thought in his mind, again and again and again, until he discovered another aspect that bothered him. He had thought that the depth of the profile didn't matter, but the truth was that it did. The depth of the profile mattered, because Reid was a romantic. For himself, he wanted to understand for the sake of understanding. For others, he wanted the same. He wanted them to understand the profile of "The Fallen Angel", all of it in its depth and complexity, but he couldn't fill them in on the parts that they had missed - on each of the crimes within each of the profiles and on each of the steps in the progression of his fall from grace. That was the plan that he should have come up with. That was the plan that he should have carried out. If he had carried out that plan, then at this moment, he would not have been ashamed. Instead, he would have been proud. Carrying out that plan would have taken the ounce of courage that he did not have and had not yet found. He wondered if he would ever find it. He hoped that he would. He tried to imagine a day on which he would find it. Maybe it would be the same as the day on which he found out the answer to the question. He hoped that it would. He tried to imagine the day, now doubly glorious. Try as he might, he could not imagine such a day. He could not imagine it, so he would have to find it. He would have to find the day, and the answer, for himself. In the meantime, he took respite in the knowledge that fallen and graceless as he had now become, he had finally felt something. With his will and against his will, an urge to laugh had vanished to be replaced by an urge to cry. Even for the fallen angel, all was not lost, because, even for him, in pride was there shame and in shame pride.

* * *

Sing-Song of the Day: Doom, doom, death and destruction! Death and destruction are following me!

Next up: Hotch, Rossi, Morgan, and Prentiss go off to do something useless but safe, while Scotty and Spencey renew their bromance in the beautiful quasi-natural environment of Niagara Falls. One last piece of "The Fallen Angel" remains to be slotted into place and lead to future redrum.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The night sky was dark and starry. When it dawned, the day would be bright and sunny, without the threat of precipitation. Reid had wished for rain, but nature had not granted his wish.

"No matter," he thought. "You can't always get what you want."

He yawned widely as he lay on the couch in the lounge at the police station. The yawn brought tears to his eyes and clarity to his mind. He sniffled, rolled over under the blanket, and checked the clock on the wall. It was six. Soon, Detective Scott Collier would leave the police station to go home after his night shift. Soon, the BAU would arrive.

With a groan, Reid sat up. He stretched out his arms and legs, stiff and sore after a night of dangling dislocation. They were long and gangly, and there was never anywhere to put them whenever he fell asleep anywhere other than the bed or the floor.

With the blood flowing through his limbs, Reid stood up. He promptly fell over, because one of his feet was still asleep. He snorted in annoyance, tapped the offending foot against the carpeted floor, and picked himself up from his undignified position as it tingled to greet the day. Hoping that no one had seen him, he lunged towards the opposite side of the room. On the opposite side of the room was the counter, upon which was ensconced the Holy Grail of Wakefulness, the Patron Saint of the Awakened, the Tears and Blood of the Awakening - the Coffee Pot, filled to the brim, with Coffee.

"You alright, Doc?" came the sound of a familiar voice from his right.

"What? Huh?" Reid turned to face the doorway.

"Just me, Doc," Collier waved a hand. "Have you been here all night?"

"Oh, hi, Detective! Yes, I've been here all night, waiting for some results from the tech," Reid nodded with a yawn, both the nod and the yawn genuine expressions of his genuine self that had yet, on this blessed new day, to be defiled by the pretenses of exaggeration and attenuation. "Your tech who works the night shift...Uh, what was her name again?" the ingenue didn't last long.

"Lori," Collier said.

"Yeah, Lori," Reid nodded again, then yawned again, this time for effect. "Lori's been working to recover the original CCTV footage from the deleted files on the hard drive of the storage server. She and her software have been working on it all night. It's a slow process, but she tells me that the videos should be ready by nine. In a few hours, once everyone gets in, we'll be able to analyze the footage for the UnSub. I won't even have to watch it myself. The software should give us tons of hits for Technical Analyst Terrence Wood. That'll help us put the final nail in the coffin, so to speak," he yawned again.

"Where's the rest of your team?" Collier asked calmly. "Where are Agents Hotchner and Rossi? I have yet to meet Agents Morgan and Prentiss."

"Morgan and Prentiss are still staking out the UnSub's apartment," Reid answered. "They've been there all night, so they must be frozen to their seats by now. Hotch and Rossi went to the hotel to get some sleep before the, uh, whatever happens today."

"What's going to happen today?" Collier asked curiously. "Are you going to raid the UnSub's apartment? Grace is coming in soon, but I can stick around too, if we're going to..."

"Oh, don't bother, Detective," Reid shook his head. "You should go home and get some sleep after your night shift. It's been a long twelve hours. Whatever we decide to do, it's going to take us hours to get around to it. We're going to have to get a search warrant for Wood's apartment and an arrest warrant for Wood himself. As you know, that's going to take quite a bit of time."

"Yeah, you're right," Collier agreed. "How about you call me if anything comes up? Especially if and when you do get those warrants. Now that we've identified the UnSub, I'd hate to miss out on apprehending and interrogating him."

"Sure, no problem," Reid replied. "I know you've been on this case since the very beginning. Regardless of whether or not we're here, it's only fair for you to see it through to the very end."

"Thanks, Doc," Collier reached out to shake hands. "So, uh, you drew the short straw, didya?" he pointed at the couch, upon which the blanket shared space with Reid's messenger bag and gun.

"Yeah, I guess I did," Reid smiled slightly. "It's OK though. I don't really mind it. It's not a big deal for me to sleep here one night. Even at home, I fall asleep on the couch all the time. One time, I even fell asleep on the floor. I was high on Tylenol, so the whole time I was sleeping on the floor, I thought I was sleeping in bed. It was actually pretty comfortable. I dreamed that I was sleeping on a soft white cloud in the sky," he laughed a little.

"Wow, Doc, that's some special Tylenol you've got there," Collier remarked. "Care to share?"

"It only works on me," Reid smiled again. "My physiology is unique."

"Oh, I see," Collier smiled back. "Well, I'll leave you to it then. Don't forget to..." he made phone fingers against his head.

"Don't worry, Detective, I won't forget," Reid waved goodbye as Collier backed out of the room.

He peeked around the corner and tracked the detective with his eyes as Collier walked down the hallway towards the back door of the police station. He realized that he had been fooling himself for several days now. Ever since he had named the profile, only last Wednesday, he had felt an irrepressible, but totally explicable, urge to kill Detective Scott Collier. Ever since he had tried and failed to kill himself, he had wanted to kill this man, who was to him as was Terrence Wood to Penelope Garcia. Now, rain or shine, he realized that there was no way he was going to push the detective down the falls. Compared to Reid, Collier was two inches shorter, but fifty pounds heavier, making up for a slight disadvantage in one area with a significant advantage in another. Poetic justic be damned, there was no way Reid was going to push the man over the railing, into the river, and down the falls. Instead, he would have to shoot him, but even had there been torrents of rain to wash away the blood from the gunshot wounds, there was no way Reid was going to push the body over the railing, into the river, and down the falls. Unlike some of his other victims, Detective Scott Collier was not a waifish crackwhore.

"No matter," he thought as he turned back to the couch. "Nothing is perfect," he checked the number of bullets in his government-issued revolver.

Satisfied that there were six, he poured himself a cup of coffee, added several spoonfuls of sugar, and stirred the black liquid in the retrograde direction, as was most natural for the right-handed. The heavenly aroma filled him, worn and weary after a nearly sleepless night, with a sense of physical well-being, and the taste, once he had taken a sip, was heaven incarnate.

"Hey, Pretty Boy, how was _your_ night?" came the sound of a familiar voice, again from his right.

"How do you _think_?" Reid turned to face Morgan in the doorway.

"Sorry, Man, no sympathy here," Morgan chuckled. "I had to spend several hours in a freezing cold SUV outside the apartment building of a random computer geek who turned out not to be the UnSub. Good thing you figured out that he wasn't the UnSub. Otherwise, Prentiss and I would have spent the whole night there. Tell me, Reid, did you really lull the UnSub into a false sense of security with your babbling and blabbing? Did you really lure him into your pit of vipers with facts, facts, and more facts? Garcia tells me that at one point, you went on and on and on about CCTV, rockets, and some guy named Wiener?"

"Wernher!" Reid corrected. "Wernher von Braun. And no, I didn't lull or lure anyone into anything. The UnSub made mistakes as a result of his own guilty conscience."

"Yeah, right," Morgan snorted. "I know you, Reid. I'm on to you. There's no way you could have failed to notice the discrepancies in his statements the first time around, while the video was first being recorded. You knew exactly what you were doing. You were only playing dumb for the sake of the team, so it wouldn't look like you had figured out everything yourself."

"You can believe whatever you choose to believe," Reid shrugged. "I'm sticking to my story. You have no evidence against me."

"Except for the fact that you recorded the video," Morgan pointed his finger. "Accident, my ass. You just wait, Reid, just you wait. One of these days, I'm going to dig up your dirt. Sooner or later, uh, probably later..." he gave in to reality.

"Where's everyone else?" Reid changed the subject.

"Talking to the detective," Morgan replied. "Good Cop, I mean. We ran into Detective Dylan on our way into the station. Hotch sent me to get you. Did the tech finish recovering the files yet?"

"Yeah, it didn't take long," Reid said. "She finished a few hours ago, so we had time to run the footage through the software before I turned in for the night, uh, morning. We got tons of hits for the UnSub. I didn't even have to watch the videos myself. He was recorded walking around the main viewpoint on all five days from the 8th through the 12th."

"He was there around sunset?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah, either before his night shift or after his day shift," Reid answered.

"So all there's left to do is to bring him in for interrogation and try to get him to confess," Morgan said. "Good thing we've got a profile. It's not much, but it does give us a general idea of his thought processes. And we'll also search his house and office, just in case he collected any souvenirs from the victims. And his computers too, for the original and modified footage. If we can get our hands on both types of evidence, then they should be enough to put him away for good."

"Hopefully," Reid sighed.

"What's wrong, Pretty Boy?" Morgan teased. "Did you get rejected by that hot tech girl down the hall? Is that why you had to sleep in here instead of in her cozy little hacker cave?"

"Shouldn't you be having this conversation with Garcia?" Reid asked.

"It's funnier to have this conversation with you," Morgan said. "When you gonna learn, Reid? Whenever you see a Hot Hacker Honey like the one I just saw sitting all alone in front of her computer, it's up to you to..."

"Unlike yours, my thought processes are not constantly occupied with 'honeys', with whom..." Reid started, but Morgan interrupted, "And therein lies the problem."

"Wherein lies what problem?" Rossi poked his head into the room.

"Nowhere...Nowhere lies any..." Reid started again, but Morgan interrupted again, "Reid's come up with a new profile. He calls it 'The Fallen Chia Pet'."

"Let me guess, the chia pet wanted to elevate itself to the level of its human owner, and as a result, fell from grace," Rossi smirked.

"Chi-Chi-Chi-Chia!" Prentiss entered the room.

"Damn it, Prentiss, why'd you have to do that?" Morgan sputtered in frustration. "That stupid jingle is gonna be stuck in my head all day now. We'll be in the middle of the raid, and I'll be singing, 'Chi-Chi-Chi-Chia!' Thanks, Prentiss, thanks a lot."

"Happy to help, any way I can," Prentiss smiled brightly.

The smile, followed by a laugh, were both cut short when Hotch stepped into the doorway. Suddenly, the BAU was all business, any residual jibbing and jabbing crumpling and melting under the Glare. Rossi, Morgan, and Prentiss turned to face Hotch as Reid hid his face behind a coffee cup.

"What's the plan?" Rossi asked Hotch.

"It's half past six," Hotch checked his watch. "It's going to take another two hours for us to get the search and arrest warrants. Collier left the station right before we came in. We saw him drive out of the parking lot. Detective Dylan tells me that he lives thirty miles outside of town, on a multi-acre property that he inherited from his uncle. Normally, on Mondays after his night shift, he stops by a diner in town for breakfast before going home for the day. He doesn't work again until Wednesday morning. Then, he works day shifts from Wednesday through Saturday. Right now, he's off enjoying his version of the weekend. Reid, did you speak to Collier as we had planned? Would you say that he's an immediate danger right now?"

"No," Reid answered. "I don't think he's not an immediate danger right now. I made sure to emphasize that we were still considering Wood to be the UnSub. I told him that the CCTV footage wouldn't be ready until nine and that we'd be analyzing the footage for the tech. He took the news well."

"Good," Hotch nodded. "We don't want to arrest him until he gets home. Obviously, he's armed, and there's no telling what he'd do if we confronted him at the police station or anywhere else in public. Detective Dylan is assembling a team of officers to assist us in making the arrest. Hopefully, he comes easy, but we've got to be very very careful during this raid."

"How'd she take it?" Morgan asked.

"Not very well," Hotch answered. "I explained about the footage and the profile, but it's going take some time for everything to sink in. She's still skeptical, but she's willing to defer to us for the time being and bring him in for questioning. She's also going to let us search his office. We don't need a warrant for that."

"Once we bring him in, supposing that he lets us, are we going to hope that he confesses his crimes?" Prentiss asked. "We don't have any physical evidence against him. All we have is that bizarre profile and the circumstantial evidence of the CCTV footage."

"That's why we're hoping to find something on his property," Hotch replied. "All four victims were missing something that they had been wearing on their bodies, so maybe he collected souvenirs from them after their bodies were recovered from the river. Each time, he was the chief responder on the scene."

"Colin Taylor, missing a class ring from his alma mater, Hahhhvahhhd," Rossi recited. "Kazuo Sato, an earring from his right ear. Melody Sanders, a Phiten titanium bracelet. Angelina Alvarez, a gold necklace with a ruby birthstone pendant. Apparently, he prefers jewelry. Overnight, Garcia contacted the victims' families and collected photos of those exact items. She emailed them over just now," he held up a stack of glossy printouts and passed them out to everyone in the room.

"Perfect," Morgan snapped his fingers as he viewed the photos. "These should help us nail him for sure."

"What about the interrogation?" Prentiss asked. "What's our approach for that? And who's going to take the lead?"

"Reid," Hotch answered immediately.

"Oh, uh, what, me?" Reid blinked in surprise. "I thought, um, I thought that you'd want to..."

"It has to be you," Hotch said. "From the video, it looks like he has some kind of special rapport with you. He might clam up in front of others, but I bet you can get him to talk. Do what you did before. Cold clinical knowledge and analysis...Try to get him to crack and make mistakes, or better yet, confess. I want you to work on that while we're away on the raid."

"Oh, you mean I should stay here?" Reid asked. "I'm not going on the raid?"

"No," Hotch said. "I'm sorry, Reid, but we need your brain more than your gun. We've got enough guns already. You understand?"

"Oh, of course. No problem, Hotch," Reid brushed off the concerns. "I'll stay here and work on the interrogation."

"Good," Hotch said. "Morgan and Prentiss, get the warrants when the courthouse opens. Dave and I will meet with Detective Dylan and her team, then search Collier's office and computer. Reid, the interrogation. Everyone else, check your weapons. Make sure everything is ready to go by nine. Maybe we'll be able to surprise him in bed."

"Yeah, it _would_ help if all the UnSubs could be asleep when we raided their homes and/or torture chambers," Rossi muttered on his way out of the room.

"Um, Hotch?" Reid approached Hotch as Rossi, Morgan, and Prentiss went off to do their duties.

"Yes, what is it?" Hotch lingered in the doorway.

"There's been, uh, one thing that's been bothering me all night," Reid said. "It's about what I said in the video, the part at the end when I kind of, um, gave him his options. I really regret saying that now."

"When you were talking about serial killers choosing to kill themselves or others?" Hotch asked. "What did you call it? 'The Angel' and 'The Devil'?"

"Yeah, I have a bad feeling...I mean, I dunno if he'll, uh, take me up on one of those options?" Reid said.

"You mean that he'll try to kill himself or someone else before we get to him this morning?" Hotch asked. "I wouldn't worry about that, Reid. You know as well as I do that these serial killers live day-to-day. Any day that they don't get caught is a good day in their books. Collier thinks that we think that Wood is the UnSub. He's not going to kill himself or anyone else as long as he thinks that we're not on to him. He hasn't killed anyone in a week. He can control himself."

"I hope you're right," Reid nodded. "I'm probably worrying over nothing."

"Or you're restless, because you're not going on the raid," Hotch suggested. "I promise you, Reid. Next time there's a raid, you're going, whether you like it or not. This time, I'm just...I'm just afraid that..." he hesitated.

"What? Afraid that what?" Reid prompted.

"Sooner or later, Collier's going to recall his mistakes from his conversation with you," Hotch explained. "He might be recalling them right now over breakfast. He might recall them on the drive home or once he gets home. If you go on the raid...If you show up at his house this morning, then I'm afraid that he might target you specifically. And once he decides to target one of us, then he might also decide to go down shooting. That's why I asked you to stay here and prepare for the interrogation instead."

"Oh," Reid opened his mouth in surprise. "I, I didn't realize...Yeah, you're right, Hotch...I guess he really might target me out of all the people on the raid...And, and go down shooting too."

"I think it's better for all involved if you're not there," Hotch continued. "Anyway, you'll be waiting for him at the police station. Why don't you get some breakfast and find somewhere quiet to prepare for the interrogation? I wasn't kidding about that. Take a cold clinical approach, but don't be afraid to get a little aggressive, intellectually, I mean. Do whatever it takes to get a confession out of him. Insult his intelligence, point out his mistakes, explain the profile to him, whatever it takes. I'm sure you'll be able to outsmart him. We'll be backing you up outside."

"Yeah, alright, sure," Reid answered. "I'll see you later then, after you bring him in. Be careful on the raid."

"Will do, see you later," Hotch nodded as he stepped out of the room.

As he had done earlier for the detective, Reid peeked around the corner and tracked Hotch down the hallway. He tracked Hotch with his eyes until Hotch turned towards the conference room. He turned back to the lounge, crossed over to the couch, and gathered up his belongings. He took a final chug of cold acrid coffee before dumping the empty cup into the wastebasket and exiting the room. Soon, the officers would be coming in for their morning coffee, and he wasn't about to stick around to meet any of them or answer any of their questions. No doubt they had already fallen victim to the _ad hominem_ logical fallacy. Besides, he had his own questions to answer and his own messengers to shoot.

Outside, in the hallway, Reid looked for somewhere quiet to prepare for the interrogation. Most of the officers were gathered in the conference room with Hotch, Rossi, and Detective Dylan. Morgan and Prentiss were preparing a written request for the search and arrest warrants. Now was the perfect time for Reid to sneak into the CCTV control room. In modern usage, CCTV footage was recorded and analyzed automatically, but live videos could still be transmitted to be monitored by live people. It would not be his fault if, while preparing for the interrogation somewhere quiet, dark, and cozy, he happened to glance up and spot Detective Scott Collier in the live feed from the main viewpoint above Niagara Falls. Nor would it be his fault if, while all the officers and agents were gone on the raid, he was left, all alone, to stop the detective from killing himself or anyone else unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Again, it was a case of killing two birds with one stone. First, the UnSub. He would kill him. Second, everyone else. He would save them from him.

For himself, Reid was not afraid. This morning, one way or another, "The Fallen Angel" would be completed and the fall complete.

* * *

"Ding!" the facial recognition software sounded the alarm in the tones of a kitchen timer.

Reid looked up from his lap, upon which he had been reading a magazine that he had picked out of the recycling bin in the CCTV control room. The magazine was called "Cosmopolitan". Normally, he would never have read such a thing, but after three hours of alternately sitting on his hands and twiddling his thumbs, he had become so bored that even a vacuous sex-crazed scandal sheet was better than nothing. Besides, the pages were glossy and perfumed, and there were pretty pictures of pretty girls in pretty dresses to commit to memory. He had even taken some of the quizzes. One of them had scored him as "frigid". All across the board, he had been disappointed with the results.

"Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!" the software sounded the alarm for every frame in which it spotted the target.

At the sound, Reid tossed away the magazine and fumbled for the keyboard. Having set the software to automatically analyze the CCTV footage as it streamed in from the falls, he had not considered that the hits would orchestrate a neverending din of dings to alert him. Quickly, as a Pavlovian response to the unwelcome noises, he pressed a button to mute the sound. In the welcome silence, he leaned forwards to gaze studiously into the computer screen.

On the computer screen was a live feed from the main viewpoint above Niagara Falls, and in the live feed was Detective Scott Collier, prowling the area in much the same way that he had done during his heady early days as an impulse-driven predator. Reid wondered what had taken him so long to get to the falls. Had he seriously spent three hours eating breakfast at the diner? Or had he simply waited until after nine, when the CCTV footage would be ready and his doom spelled, to take the absent-minded professor up on one or both of his options? Reid didn't know. Reid didn't care. He picked up his cell phone to call Hotch.

"Yeah, Reid, what is it?" Hotch answered on the second ring.

"Collier's not at home," Reid said.

"I know," Hotch answered. "We just entered the house a few minutes ago. The officers are doing a sweep of a property right now. Collier's not here."

"I know," Reid said. "He's not at home, because he's at the falls."

"What? How do you know?" Hotch asked.

"I'm sitting here in the CCTV control room, watching a live feed of him wandering around the falls," Reid added a hint of panic to his tone. "I don't know what he's doing there. At the moment, there's no one else in the frame, but I'm afraid that someone's going to come by, and Collier's going to push them down the falls. What if he devolves, ditches his M.O., and shoots them instead? I'm going to go over there to stop him."

"No!" Hotch shouted sharply into the phone. "No, Reid, no! You stay put! We're heading over there right now."

"But you're thirty miles away," Reid argued. "By the time you get there, Collier will have racked up several more victims. I can be there in a few minutes, if that."

"Do _not_, Reid!" Hotch ordered firmly.

"We've got no other choice, Hotch," Reid argued further. "Most of the officers are away on the raid with you. The only two who didn't go responded to a 911 call fifteen minutes ago. I'm the only one left. Don't worry, I'm not going to try to arrest him. I'll make up something about the case. I'll say that the CCTV footage was corrupted or that we're still waiting on the warrants for Terrence Wood. I'll talk to him and keep him occupied until the rest of you show up. Sorry, Hotch, but we've got no other choice! What if he takes me up on one of those options? I knew I shouldn't have mentioned them! It's all my fault that he's out there right now! I've got to go stop him before he kills anyone else. Sorry, Hotch, gotta go..." he hung up, ending the act of promotion.

Dropping his cell phone on the floor, he stood up and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. At the door, he poked his head out and peered both ways before sneaking out of the room, darting through the deserted police station, and rushing into the parking lot, where a lone black SUV, separated from the flock, awaited him.

On the drive towards the falls, a single thought dominated his mind. For several blissful minutes, he drove and thought and parked and thought and ran and thought. He thought about the act of promotion. He thought about his hopes for the future. Hoping against all hope, he hoped that this time, he would finally be caught.

The hopes lasted as long as the drive and as long as the run. They lasted no longer, because as soon as Reid spotted the UnSub leaning over the railing on the trail along the river, all other feelings were driven away by a single overwhelming urge to kill the man and get away, yet again, with yet another act of premeditated murder. In the same hopeless breath, he realized that the act of promotion had been concomitant with the act of obstruction, because the two acts had been one and the same.

"Scott!" Reid called from a distance.

"Dr. Reid, what are you doing here?" Collier turned away from the rushing falling water.

"I came to ask you something," Reid sputtered breathlessly as he approached the railing.

"What? Did something come up with the case?" Collier asked.

"Yeah, something came up," Reid answered. "You know the CCTV footage? The files that were deleted and recovered?"

"Yeah, what about them?" Collier asked anxiously.

"Wood's not in the videos, not a single one," Reid replied. "Not a trace of him in any of the footage. The software gave us zero hits. I had to watch the videos myself. That's why I came down here in such a rush. In the footage, I saw you from all five days that week. You must have been patrolling the falls at the end of your day shift or the beginning of your night shift. Why didn't you tell me that you had patrolled the area on those evenings? I came to ask you if you had seen anyone suspicious at the falls. Maybe the same person from all five days that week?"

"You came all the way down here just to ask me that?" Collier narrowed his eyes. "You could have called me instead."

"I know, I know," Reid nodded, still slightly breathless. "But I wanted to be here to see the look on your face when I asked you if you had seen anyone suspicious. Maybe the same person from all five days that week?"

"What...What do you mean?" Collier stared blankly. "I, I dunno what you're..."

"The look, the look," Reid pointed at Collier's face. "The look that you're giving me right now...I don't know how to describe it exactly. It's like this...It's _blank_. Yeah, _blank_. It's like this mixture of sheer horror and utter relief that you're dying to show on your face, but it's not showing, because you're not letting it show, because you're still clinging to your pride or dignity or self-respect or whatever it is that you hold so dear that it's stopping you from telling anyone that you're a killer, but you can stop that now, because you can tell me, because I'm the same as you, because I'm a killer too, and I'm dying to tell someone too."

"Um, are you alright, Doc?" Collier backed away a few paces along the trail towards the falls. "You sound...kind of..."

"Crazy? Maybe, yeah, maybe," Reid squinted in serious consideration. "But that's beside the point. See, I didn't come here to ask you about your crimes. I already know all about your crimes. To be honest, your crimes aren't that interesting to me. The only thing that stands out is the M.O., and even the M.O. isn't that interesting if you consider the fact that, duh, you live and work near Niagara Falls. Why shoot someone if you can push them down the falls instead? It's so much cleaner that way. Plus, you're a big guy. You can push someone over the railing, into the river, and down the falls much more easily than I can. Did you do it from this exact spot? Is that why you came down here, to this exact spot, to take me up on one of those options? I'm curious. Which one did you pick? 'The Angel' or 'The Devil'?"

"I, I don't know what's going on, Doc," Collier replied. "But I think you should go back to the police station. Right now, before any of this goes any further."

"Back to the police station? But I don't want to go back to the police station!" Reid whined. "There's no one there. Everyone's gone off to search your house and arrest you. But you aren't there, because you're here. And they're not here, because they're there. But I'm not there, so I'm here. I'm here to tell you about my crimes. I've got to tell someone about my crimes. I tried to tell my boss, but I failed. I wanted to tell my colleagues, but I didn't even try, because, uh, because, uh, because I'm afraid what they'll think of me if they knew. I'm ashamed of my crimes, and I hate myself for committing them! I can't bring myself to tell my friends and colleagues, so I'm going to tell you instead. You're the only person I can tell, so I'd appreciate it if you'd hear me out, alright?"

"What...What crimes are you talking about?" Collier frowned deeply.

"Mine!" Reid tapped his chest. "Not _yours_, but _mine_! As I said, I don't care about your crimes. But you can still tell me yours after I tell you mine. This is called reciprocity, or 'Tit for Tat'. I'll confess my crimes to you. You'll confess your crimes to me. Afterwards, we'll both feel better about ourselves."

"Ahem," Reid cleared his throat to begin. "My name is Spencer Reid. I am 29 years old. In my life, I have killed a total of eight people. Each person is a data point on a plot of saving people vs. killing people. Saving people is on the x-axis, and killing people is on the y-axis. Is that clear, Detective?"

"One of them I killed because I had to. That's (100, 0) on the plot. One of them I killed because I had to and wanted to. That's (50, 50) on the plot. Three of them I killed because first, I had to, then second, I had to and wanted to, then third, I wanted to. Those are (100, 0), (50, 50), and (0, 100) on the plot. Remember the three muggers in the alley in the rain? The first one I killed as an impulse-driven predator, but also because I had to, the third one I killed as a purpose-driven predator, but not because I had to, and the second one I killed as...I don't know...50-50? For the muggers, I can plot them as a forest - (0, 100) - or as trees - (100, 0), (50, 50), and (0, 100). Both datasets are accurate if you think about it. Isn't that cool? My plot has self-similarity. It's a fractal. It continues with the prostitutes. Three of them I killed because first, I wanted to, then second, I wanted to and had to, then third, I had to. Those are (0, 100), (50, 50), and (100, 0) on the plot. The first one I killed because I wanted to, but I didn't know that I had to, the second one I killed because I wanted to, but I also knew that I had to, and the third one I killed because I had to, to save JJ and to keep JJ safe. For the prostitutes, as for the muggers, I can plot them as (50, 50) or as (0, 100), (50, 50), and (100, 0). Isn't that cool? Still a fractal. Finally, I tried to kill a ninth person, but I failed. Him I tried to kill because I had to, not because I wanted to. On the plot, that would have been (100, 0), but I failed, so the plot is incomplete."

"Why are you telling me this?" Collier backed away a few more paces.

"Why am I telling you this?" Reid scurried forwards to follow. "I told you why! Several times! Do you have a short-term memory problem? Don't answer that. I don't care. Just shut up and let me tell you about my crimes, alright?"

"The first person I killed because I had to," Reid continued. "Let me tell you about the good and bad parts of the killing. The good part was that I killed him. It was good that I killed him, because he was an UnSub, holding me and a bunch of other people hostage at a hospital, so I shot him in the head, straight through the head," he pointed at Collier's forehead. "The bad part was that I killed him. For the first time ever, I killed. I tasted the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and although it wasn't forbidden to me, because I was an angel, not a man, it was still delicious. Not only was it delicious, but it also made me feel good. Do you know what kind of good it made me feel? It made me feel powerful. For the first time ever, I felt powerful. Do you know what it's like to feel powerful? Of course you do! You're a killer, just like me. All killers feel powerful, but the feelings don't always last. In my case, they didn't last. Do you know why they didn't last? Because I didn't let them last. What kind of person feels powerful after shooting and killing someone, even an UnSub who deserved to die? My feelings were all wrong, so I felt them, then drove them away, all within the span of an hour. During that hour, I felt so powerful that I told my boss, who had spent the entire hostage crisis telling the UnSub how much he hated me, but not nearly as much as he's going to hate me once he finds out about my crimes, that he kicked like a nine-year-old girl, and he admitted it too, but only to humor me, because he and I both knew that he didn't kick like a nine-year-old girl, because he kicked like an FBI agent. _I_ kick like a nine-year-old girl, but I shouldn't kick like a nine-year-old girl, because I'm an FBI agent. Do you know why I became an FBI agent?"

"No, no idea," Collier shook his head and stared.

"I could have done anything I wanted with my life," Reid said. "I could have done a lot of good in my life, but I chose not to. I was born with unlimited potential. I could have cured diseases and launched rockets in the same breath, like, uh, like, uh, like Louis Pasteur and Wernher von Braun in one, but I chose not to. Instead, I joined the BAU and became an FBI agent, the youngest ever, just because I wanted to feel powerful. It's pathetic, isn't it? I'm pathetic, aren't I? But there's a reason behind it all, and it all makes sense, because growing up as I had, the youngest whatever, the smallest whatever, power was the one thing I didn't have. Well, one thing among many things, but this isn't a sob story, so I won't bore you with the details. You know that most children don't grow up to become serial killers unless they had some kind of bad childhood, right? In my case...Oh, sorry, details...Anyway, I became an FBI agent to satisfy a pathetic urge to feel powerful, and it didn't take me long to get my wish. Do you know how I felt after I got my wish?"

"No idea," Collier continued shaking his head and staring.

"I felt terrible!" Reid exclaimed. "I hated myself for getting my wish. I hated myself for feeling powerful, even for an hour outside the hospital, so I drove away my feelings that were all wrong. Afterwards, I felt nothing. For a few hours, it was a relief to feel nothing, but then, on the plane ride home, I realized that I should have been feeling something. Something, but what? I didn't know. Should I have felt guilt? I didn't know. Should I have felt guilt for killing an UnSub who had his assault rifle set on full auto and was going to go down squeezing the trigger if he didn't get the headshot that he deserved? I didn't know! Why didn't I know? Because I should have _felt_ something, not _known_ things! But why couldn't I feel anything? Because I had driven away both my feelings that were all wrong and my ability to feel feelings that were all wrong! But why did I do that? Because I didn't want to feel powerful! But why didn't I want that? Because if I felt powerful once, then I might want to feel powerful again! But why didn't I want that? Because if I wanted to feel powerful again, then I might want to kill again!"

"You...You, you, you _are_ crazy," Collier shifted his eyes between the trees and the river as he edged away from Reid.

"Maybe, yeah, maybe," Reid nodded. "But that's beside the point. See, I came here to tell you about my crimes. They go from good to bad to worse. The second person I killed because I had to and wanted to. The good part was that I killed him. It was good that I killed him, because he was an UnSub, holding me hostage at a graveyard, so I shot him in the heart, straight through the heart," he pointed at Collier's chest. "The bad part...Well, there were so many bad parts that I don't even know where to start. I'll start with the worst part. The worst part was that I chose to kill him. Well, actually, before I chose to kill him, then killed him, he made me choose who to kill, but I didn't, because I chose who not to kill, but that's not the worst part, because he, not I, was the one who killed them, so the worst part came after I chose who not to kill, then who to kill, because by that time, it wasn't a big deal for me to choose who to kill, then to choose to kill, then to kill, so that was the worst part, that I killed and also chose to kill, and that I had to and also wanted to kill, because I wanted to kill someone, anyone, after feeling so powerless during those two days with those fish guts in that cabin, all because I had wanted to impress JJ with my FBI sleuthing skills, but instead ended up running around the farm like a puppy chasing its tail, and intellectually, I thought that he deserved to die, but emotionally, I didn't feel that he deserved to die, and my feelings were all wrong again, because all the others both thought and felt that he deserved to die. The first time I killed, I killed _and_ felt powerful. The second time I killed, I killed _to_ feel powerful. The first time, I found out what it was like to kill, to _have_ to kill. The second time, I found out what it was like to choose to kill, to _want_ to kill. Afterwards, I felt even more terrible, and I hated myself even more, so I did the same thing that I did before. I drove away both my feelings that were all wrong and my ability to feel feelings that were all wrong. Afterwards, I felt nothing. I _felt_ nothing, but I _knew_ things! I knew that I wanted to feel powerful again. I knew that I wanted to kill again. I knew that I would choose to kill, then kill, again."

"But you only, uh, killed these people, because they were, um, UnSubs, right?" Collier asked nervously.

"Yeah," Reid nodded, conceding the point. "But I still killed them, and afterwards, I still felt the wrong feelings and thought the wrong thoughts. Oh, I've spent so much time telling you about my _feelings_ that were all wrong that I haven't had time to tell you about my _thoughts_ that were all wrong! Basically, my thoughts that were all wrong consisted of thinking that I should have felt the feelings that I thought were right but were actually wrong. I thought that I should have felt guilt for shooting and killing someone, even an UnSub who deserved to die, but I shouldn't have felt any guilt at all, because I had only shot and killed an UnSub who deserved to die. Then, because I thought that I should have felt the feelings that I thought were right, I did feel the feelings that I thought were right, but they were actually wrong, because they followed the thoughts that were wrong. It was like starting a chain of reasoning with a false assumption. So that was why I felt guilt for feeling no guilt, and that was why I felt more guilt for all the bad things that I did after that, and that was why I did more bad things after that, and that was why I felt more guilt for doing them, and that was why I felt more and more and more terrible, and that was why I hated myself more and more and more, and that was why I became more and more and more reckless, until I started walking in front of firing squads and into anthrax houses, and that was why I eventually chose to kill, then kill, again. Is that clear, Detective? Do you have any questions for me?"

"Uh, um..."

"Nothing?" Reid sighed in disappointment. "I've told you all about my thoughts and feelings that were all wrong, and you don't have a single question for me? Here, let me help you right the wrong. What you should have said was, 'Yeah, Doc, I have a question for you.' Go ahead, Detective, what's your question? 'So, Doc, why did you wait so long before you chose to kill, then killed, again?' Well, Detective, I waited so long, because I wanted to be good again. 'But, Doc, why did you want to be good again?' Well, Detective, I wanted to be good again, because I had been so bad for so long that I was ashamed of being bad, so I wanted to be good instead. After the second time I killed, I did some other bad things, like using and abusing narcotics when I could have gotten high on Tylenol instead, but at the time, I didn't know that I could have gotten high on Tylenol, so I used and abused narcotics instead, but then, I felt so bad about taking drugs, drugs, and more drugs that I started attending meetings that bored me out of my mind, and during those meetings, I didn't even have magazines with pictures to memorize and quizzes to fail, but in the end, the meetings were good for me, because they helped me quit the drugs, and I felt that I was good the whole time that I was attending the meetings and quitting the drugs, even though I had to lie and claim that I had been going to the movies instead, and even though it made me feel like a total loser to admit to going to the movies alone."

"'But, Doc, after you were good again, why did you go from good to bad to worse?' Come on, Detective, once I had tasted the fruit, how long could I have gone without wanting to taste it again? 'Come on yourself, Doc, that's not much of an answer.' Shut up, Detective, didn't I tell you that I wasn't going to bore you with the details? 'But, Doc, I want you to bore me with the details, because I'm a killer too, just like you, and killers are always interested in other killers, because killers always believe that other killers will be able to tell them why they had all chosen to kill, then killed, again and again and again.' Fine, Detective, I'm going to bore you with a few of the details, but you have to ask the question again."

"'So, Doc, after you were good again, why did you go from good to bad to worse?' Well, Detective, I had a dream. I had a dream in which I killed an old man, twice and not at all, and as usual, I conflated reality with fantasy. Intellectually, I _knew_ that I had killed the old man in fantasy, but emotionally, I _felt_ that I had killed the old man in reality. As usual, my feelings were all wrong, because in the dream, after I had killed the old man and dumped the body and evaded the authorities, I felt relief, then happiness, then excitement, and I knew that what I _had_ felt in fantasy was what I _would_ feel in reality were I to choose to kill, then kill, again. So that's what I did. I gave in to temptation. I chose to kill, then killed, again."

"'Wow, Doc, you can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy? What are you, some kinda nut or something?' Well, Detective, I'm not officially crazy, not yet, but I do have a habit of conflating reality with fantasy. That's the price I pay for being me. Everyday, I conflate reality with fantasy in one form or another, because for me, everything, every _single_ thing, whether it came from myself, the others, or the world, is recorded to my undeletable files on my unreformatable hard drive, so everything, every _single_ thing, is retained in its full glory, until I've got so many things bouncing around in my mind that I can't tell the difference between what's real and what's not, and between what I did and thought and felt and what I didn't do and think and feel, and every second of everyday, even while I'm asleep, new things pop up and into my mind to bounce around with everything that's already there, and all the things react with each other to produce more things, and all the things come together in an infinite number of combinations to create an infinite number of worlds, each as rich and vibrant as the one world I live in, and all the worlds make sense or can be made sense of, so yes, I am becoming, in effect, crazy, without becoming officially crazy for some good reason like becoming the paranoid schizophrenic that I've always feared but now wish to become, because at least that would get me committed to the loony bin and keep the others and the world safe from me."

"You, you, you really need help, Dr. Reid, but I'm not the one to help you," Collier held up his hands. "Please leave me alone, OK? Please go back to the police station. Aren't you cold? You're not wearing a coat...You're going to freeze to death out here. It's like...20 degrees out here. I don't know what you want from me, but I can't help you, OK?"

"Sure you can," Reid drew his gun. "You can help me conflate reality with fantasy again," he aimed his gun at the detective, who glanced briefly at his own gun before freezing his hands into place on either side of his head. "See, after I gave in to temptation, I chose to kill, then killed, six more people. I killed the muggers. I killed the prostitutes. None of them were UnSubs. During the killings, I _did_ feel in reality what I _had_ felt in fantasy. I felt the feelings that were all wrong. In reality, I felt them in reverse order as I had felt them in fantasy. Right before the killings, I felt excited. During the killings, I felt happy. Right after the killings, I felt relieved. The whole time, I felt powerful. My feelings were all wrong, so I drove them away. I drove away both my feelings that were all wrong and my ability to feel feelings that were all wrong. Afterwards, I felt nothing. For feeling nothing, I hated myself, so much, so much, so much, that I, I, uh, it's, it's, uh, hard for me to tell you this, so I'll just let you ask me a question, and I'll answer your question, alright?"

"'But, Doc, after you killed all these people, even more people than I killed, what did you do then?' Shut up, Detective, I'm not going to tell you what I did then. It's none of your business what I did then. What you should have asked was, 'But, Doc, after you killed all these people, even more people than I killed, and after you did whatever you did then, what are you going to do now?' Well, Detective, I don't know. (100, 0) or (0, 100)? It could go either way. 'The Angel' or 'The Devil'? It could go either way."

"Look, uh, I, I didn't kill anyone, really I didn't," Collier stammered. "Please, please put the gun away. I'll come with you to the police station, OK? You, you can arrest me if you want, OK? Just put the gun away, please."

"I told you, Detective, I don't want to go back to the police station!" Reid snapped. "Do you have a short-term memory problem? Don't answer that. I don't care. See, I came here to tell you about my crimes, then to complete the profile. I should have completed the profile a week ago, but I didn't, because in order to complete the profile, I had to kill myself to keep the others safe from me, just like I killed the UnSubs to keep myself and the others safe from them. Last week, I tried to kill myself. I _tried_! I _did_ try! I tried to kill myself, but I failed. I tried to confess, but I failed. Why did I fail to confess? Because I didn't want the others to hate me as much as I hated myself! Why did I fail to kill myself? Because, uh, because, uh, because I didn't want to kill myself! Had I succeeded, that data point would have been (100, 0) - 100% saving others, 0% killing myself, killing because I had to, not because I wanted to, an act of love, not an act of hate, 'The Angel', not 'The Devil'! So, because I tried and failed to kill myself, I'm going to try to kill you, but I don't know if I'm going to succeed or fail, because at the same time, you're going to try to kill me, and whoever squeezes the trigger faster will live, and whoever squeezes the trigger slower will die, alright? This time, I'm going to leave it all up to chance. Failure _or_ success. 'The Angel' _or_ 'The Devil'. (100, 0) _or_ (0, 100). Self _or_ other. An act of love _or_ an act of hate. Reality _and_ fantasy. Conflation. If I succeed, then intellectually, I'm going to _know_ that I killed _you_ in reality, but emotionally, I'm going to _feel_ that I killed _me_ in fantasy. If I fail, then intellectually, I'm going to _know_ that _you_ killed me in reality, but emotionally, I'm going to _feel_ that _I_ killed me in fantasy. Either way, what I _will_ feel in fantasy is what I _want_ to feel in reality. I'm going to feel excited, then happy, then relieved. The whole time, I'm going to feel powerless, not powerful, because I'm going to leave it all up to chance. Chance, not choice! Is that clear, Detective? What do you think, Detective? Good or bad?"

Reid stopped, breathless but well. His hands shook as he held the gun, but from cold rather than emotion. He looked at Collier, whose hands shook as well, but from emotion rather than cold.

"Scott," Reid addressed the detective by name. "I want to you follow my directions exactly, one by one. I want you to do exactly what I tell you, no more and no less. Alright?"

Collier nodded quickly.

"Draw your gun, but don't aim it at me," Reid ordered.

Collier drew his gun and aimed it downwards, at the ground.

"Aim your gun at me, but don't put your finger on the trigger," Reid ordered.

Collier aimed his gun at Reid, without putting his finger on the trigger.

"Put your finger on the trigger, but don't squeeze the trigger," Reid ordered.

Collier put his finger on the trigger, burning flesh against freezing metal, without squeezing the trigger.

"Squeeze the trigger," Reid ordered.

Collier hesitated, then flexed his finger to squeeze the trigger. In the moment of hesitation that was the fundamental difference between the two killers - the one who had been caught and the one who had not, the one who could kill and the one who could not, the one for whom the bagpipes would be played and the one for whom they would not - Reid squeezed the trigger. The two shots sounded above the noise of rushing falling water, one conflating with the other as they rang out and faded away. One bullet whizzed through the air and missed its target, hitting a tree branch in the far distance. Another whizzed through less air and hit its target, penetrating a heart and kicking a brain into a frantic quest to let go of living, as a finger, dying, then dead, squeezed a trigger to send a bullet into a tree branch in the far distance.

Eventually, after a second in both reality and fantasy, Reid aimed the revolver, cocked the hammer, and squeezed the trigger again. Excited, happy, relieved. After another second, he did it again. Excited, happy, relieved. Another, and again. Excited, happy, relieved. Another, and again. Excited, happy, relieved. Another, and again. Excited, happy, relieved. Powerful.

In total, Reid squeezed the trigger six times. Six times - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Six targets - UnSub, UnSub, muggers, prostitutes, UnSub, UnSub. Six points - (100, 0), (50, 50), (0, 100), (50, 50), (100, 0), (0, 100). Intellectually, he knew that he had killed Detective Scott Collier in reality, but emotionally, he felt that he had killed SSA Dr. Spencer Reid in fantasy. The plot was complete. The profile was complete. The fall was complete. All that remained was a tabula rasa, upon which he could live however he chose to live.

* * *

In the bathroom on the BAU jet, Reid checked his appearance in the mirror to make sure that he looked alright. He looked alright, so he fumbled in his messenger bag to retrieve Scott Collier's unloaded pistol. The pistol was a Glock, like the ones that Morgan and Prentiss carried, and the two that Hotch carried, and the one that Elle had carried, and the one that JJ had carried, and the one that he himself had carried, but no longer, because after he had used a Glock, but not his own, to kill the first UnSub, and after the second UnSub had used a revolver to try to kill the third UnSub, he had switched to a revolver, a Colt, then another revolver, a Smith & Wesson, and that was the gun that he had used to kill the third UnSub, who had used another gun, a Glock, to try to kill the third UnSub. Reality and fantasy had been conflated, but the story was clear.

In the bathroom, Reid recounted the story as Hotch had told it to him. He played it in his mind, fast-forwarding through the scenes and extracting the parts that formed a coherent narrative. The story was shallow, because it had been told by a profiler, but it all made sense, because the seeds of the story had been planted, consciously and subconsciously, by a killer. To Hotch and the rest of the BAU, Reid's actions had simply been the latest in a long series of reckless behavior, for which, to them, the psychology was as shallow and murky as it was, to him, deep and clear.

Finding that it was not enough to play the story in his mind, Reid assumed the voices of Hotch and himself to play the story out loud in the bathroom. As he stared at himself in the mirror, he mumbled the words softly, picking and choosing among them to play the story, twisting and turning them, but only slightly, to play Hotch the way that he wanted to play Hotch and himself the way that he always played himself. It helped that he broadcast and received the story through the auditory channel. For Reid, the auditory channel was not as rich and vibrant as the visual channel, so the pain was partially attenuated.

"Reid, are you OK?" Reid mumbled as Hotch.

"Fr, free, freez..." Reid mumbled as himself.

"Reid, it's freezing. Get in the car."

"O...K..."

"Reid, the UnSub is dead. You shot and killed him when he tried to shoot and kill you?"

"Y, ye, yes..."

"Reid, the UnSub confessed his crimes?"

"Yesssssss..."

"Reid, that was reckless and stupid. You should have waited for backup. Why didn't you wait for backup? What were you thinking? Did you think that the UnSub had gone to the falls to take you up on one of your options? Did you think that he was going to try to kill someone there? Did you think that it was all your fault that he was going to try to kill someone? Was that why you spent the morning monitoring the CCTV footage? Was that why you rushed out of the police station after you spotted him in the live feed?"

"Uh...huh..."

"Reid, you should have waited for backup. You shouldn't have run off to face the UnSub alone. While waiting for the rest of us to show up, you tried to engage and distract him as you had done before, but he recalled his mistakes from his conversation with you. He confessed his crimes to you, but only after he had made up his mind to kill you. He drew his weapon, but you drew yours just as fast. You may not have the best aim, Reid, but you're the fastest draw among all of us. He fired, and you fired. He missed, and you didn't. Thank God."

"Six..."

"I know, Reid, I know. You shot him six times."

"I, I, I...k, ki, killed..."

"You shot and killed an UnSub, Reid. Listen to me, Reid. You shot and killed an _UnSub_. You did your _job_. You killed _one_ to save _many_. You don't have to feel any guilt, Reid. You don't have to feel anything, Reid."

"N, noth, nothing?"

"Nothing, Reid, nothing. Let's go back to the police station. You're going to have to give an official written statement, but only to wrap up the case. We found the missing jewelry at the house. It would have been an open and shut case against him. I guess he knew that. None of that matters now. Let's go back to the police station, so we can wrap up the case and go home, alright?"

"Yeah, Hotch, alright."

The story was clear. At the police station, Reid told it in an official written statement to wrap up the case. Afterwards, the team went out to lunch at "The Pot of Gold" before heading off to the airport to board the jet. On the jet, Reid sat in the back with his head down until he could stand it no longer. He got up and went to the bathroom. In the bathroom, he fumbled in his messenger bag to retrieve Scott Collier's unloaded pistol, the one that, according to the official written statement, had skittered under the railing, into the river, and down the falls. He looked it over, turned it around, and put it away. Later, he would load it and use it. Now, he considered the plot, the profile, and the fall.

First, the plot.

Five years ago, he had shot and killed an UnSub and felt nothing. He recalled his exact words, complete with the self-conscious starts and stops of his 24-year-old naivete.

"I, I know I should feel bad about what happened...I, I mean, I killed a man...You know, I, I, I should feel something. But I don't."

And the counsel that he had sought and received, "Not knowing what you feel? That's not the same as not feeling anything."

Five years later, he had shot and killed an UnSub and felt everything, an indefinable white light that had not yet resolved itself into its well-defined components. He recalled his exact words, complete with the self-aware exaggerations and attenuations of his 29-year-old cynicism.

"I, I, I...k, ki, killed..."

And the counsel that he had not sought but received, "You shot and killed an UnSub, Reid. Listen to me, Reid. You shot and killed an _UnSub_. You did your _job_. You killed _one_ to save _many_. You don't have to feel any guilt, Reid. You don't have to feel anything, Reid."

If only the two could have been conflated. One was perfect for one, and the other was perfect for the other. As he stared at himself in the mirror, Reid both knew and felt that it was much too late to conflate one reality with another. Besides, conflation would have required time travel, which was not within his technological grasp, because, although he could have done a lot of good, such as curing diseases, launching rockets, and developing time travel, in his life, he had chosen not to.

Second, the profile.

The profile was complete, so the working title would have to be replaced with the permanent title. Having taken inspiration from the Bible, Reid had named the profile after Satan. Taking inspiration from the Bible again, Reid named the profile after Satan again. All along, just as he had fooled himself into believing that he could have gone back to being an angel, and just as he had fooled himself into believing that he could have pushed the detective over the railing, into the river, and down the falls, so had he fooled himself into believing that "The Fallen Angel" had been something other than a euphemism for "The Devil".

Third, the fall.

In the Bible were described two falls from grace - the Fall of Man and the Fall of Satan. In the chronology, the Fall of Satan came before the Fall of Man, but in the chronicle, the Fall of Man came before the Fall of Satan. In the Book of Genesis, mankind fell from a state of innocence to a state of guilt when Eve, tempted by the Serpent, ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and Adam, tempted by Eve, ate the same fruit from the same tree. As punishment for his crimes, the Serpent was cursed to go upon his belly and eat dust for all the days of his life. In the Book of Revelation, the Serpent was identified as Satan the Archangel, who, having lost his humility and sought to place himself at, then above, the level of God, had been cast down from Heaven, onto Earth, and into Hell. In the aftermath, Satan the Fallen Angel must have asked himself, many times, a question that had an answer. Having fallen this far, was it such a big deal to fall farther still? Having answered the question, Satan the Fallen Angel had become Satan the Devil. Satan the Devil had been the Serpent who had set up the Fall of Man, but man could hardly have fallen without his, and her, own complicity. The Devil tempted. Man gave in. God judged and punished. Man suffered.

Reid stared at himself in the mirror. He smiled, a huge teeth-baring cheek-cracking lung-clearing exhalation of unadulterated bliss. He felt something, a feeling that built and built and built, driving away all other feelings, filling all the spaces between all the molecules in the atmosphere, until the atmosphere was chockful of molecules, packed and touching, more like molecules in a solid than molecules in a gas, but aggregating to form a shimmering transparent gas nonetheless. Upon the mirror, the gas condensed, forming a curtain of water droplets over the glass. White light entered the glass, reflected off the silvered backing, and refracted through the droplets to resolve itself into its well-defined components. Reid wiped his hands over the mirror to clear away the condensation. It was like wiping a blackboard clean so it could be re-filled with the rhythmic tapping of chalk against slate. When the mirror was clean and the slate blank, he smiled again to defile both surfaces. Upon them were resolved thoughts and feelings freed from right and wrong. Smiling into the mirror, he felt a feeling that he had felt before. In the bliss after the storm, Reid felt powerful.

* * *

Oh look, it only took 16 chapters and 100,000 words to reach the end of the beginning. Thank you to all readers and reviewers! Reid really appreciates your support in his time of psychopathy.

"'But, Psychopath, how many more chapters will this story have?' Well, Reader, I can't answer that question, because I don't know myself, but I can tell you that the last redrum arc will be set in my hometown of San Diego, CA, known for our sun, surf, and drug tunnels! Mmm, tunnels."

Next up: Moar redrum, moar case(s), moar WTF. Profiles will no longer be named after the killer himself, but after the psychosocial nature of the crimes. The name of the next profile has already been mentioned. Tease, tease, evil, evil, snort, snort.


	17. Chapter 17

WARNING: From now on, this story contains no-holds-barred murder, violence, sensitive issues, offensive statements, and extreme moral bankruptcy.

* * *

Chapter 17

On Saturday, December 4, Reid went to the zoo. He bypassed the Giant Panda Habitat, the Elephant Trails, and the Great Ape House, making a beeline instead for Lion/Tiger Hill farthest from the Connecticut Avenue entrance.

At the lion exhibit, he was thrilled to see all three adults on display together. Luke, the five-year-old male, lazed on a ledge, as his pride, six-year-old sisters named Naba and Shera, prowled the yard and rubbed their muzzles against the ground, upon which was scattered a light patchy dusting of snow. When the females looked up, Reid identified them by their whiskers. For each lion, the pattern of whiskers was unique. Whiskers were to lions as fingerprints were to humans. From her whiskers, Reid saw that the lioness closest to him was Shera. She yawned, baring her canines, as he wiggled his fingers in greeting. At his greeting, Naba strolled over from her position by the pines. She appraised him with her golden yellow eyes. He searched them for signs of discontentment. A constant worry of his was that the animals at the zoo were desperately unhappy, like Blanche DuBois before her mental breakdown and descent into madness. He loved animals, even the ones who didn't love him back, and he couldn't bear to think of them living unhappy lives in captivity. Every time he visited the zoo, he couldn't help feeling a smidgeon of guilt that he had come to gape and gawk at innocent animals who had been ripped from their natural habitats to breed incestuously with odious mates not of their own choosing, all because humans had murdered so many of their families and destroyed so much of their homes that they were among the last of their kinds left on Earth. Sometimes, Reid hated humans.

Today, however, his anxieties were relieved when Naba raised her large hairy four-padded paw at him. He could see that she was glowing with contentment. And why shouldn't she be? In September, she had given birth to three cubs, who were Luke's sixth, seventh, and eighth offspring, following the births, in August, of four cubs, Luke's second, third, fourth, and fifth offspring, by Shera. Luke's first offspring, a male singleton by Naba, had died, in May, of pneumonia caused by a straw seed from his bedding that had gotten lodged in his lung while he had been sleeping the 24 hours per day that lion cubs habitually slept. After the tragedy, the zookeepers had changed the cubs' bedding to eliminate seeds of any kind. Now, nearly seven months later, all seven cubs were hale and hearty. Recently, the cubs from the two litters had been introduced to their father, aunt, and siblings, marking an integral step in the progression of the pride. Having just learned of the latest developments in the feline family, Reid was delighted to discover that such a natural harmony existed in such an unnatural environment, in which the wonderful white stuff that had never been ogled, sniffed, or tasted by any of their African ancestors had become the playground of mothers and babies alike. Even Luke, Master of the Pride, had been observed to indulge every once in a catnap.

At the tiger exhibit, Reid pushed past the swarming children to commiserate with Soyono, the female Sumatran who was still picking herself up after the heartbreaking loss of her beloved mate. Six months ago, Rokan had died, at nineteen, as one of the oldest Sumatran tigers living in captivity. He had been a prolific breeder, fathering ten offspring in total, seven of them with Soyono. All seven cubs had survived babyhood, but only one, four-year-old Guntur, still remained at the National Zoo. The others had been sent away to other zoos and breeding facilities around the world to maintain genetic diversity within the rapidly declining tiger population. Reid wondered how mother and late father had felt about the disappearance of their precious babies. Here one second, gone the next, never to be seen again! Even with frozen blood lollipops to chomp down upon during the summers and heated humidified dens to snuggle up within during the winters, life at the zoo was no bed of roses. The only pleasure cruises were the frustratingly infrequent, occurring only once, twice, or thrice per nine lifetimes, but unroarably scintillating romps in the water whenever a loud boorish visitor leaned too far over the railing and fell into the moat. The cruise was even more pleasurable when the interloper was among the 60-70% of Americans who were overweight or obese.

At 2 PM, while the afternoon was still bright, Reid left the zoo. From the main parking lot near the entrance, he drove all the way around the northern perimeter before exiting the premises to head north on Beach Drive. Beach Drive was a scenic two-lane road that followed Rock Creek, a tributary of the Potomac River, through Rock Creek Park, an urban nature reserve twice the size of Central Park in New York City. For most of its length, a walking trail paralleled the road. It was part of a system of trails that criss-crossed the area, connecting the woods and recreational facilities with the residential neighborhoods surrounding them. The park was popular with joggers, hikers, and nature lovers, even at this time of year, when the grounds had shed their lush green verdancy. What remained - bare-branched trees, half-frozen streams, snow-dusted earth - was at once forbidding and enticing, as were all natural environments at any time of year. During the summer, it was easy to get lost amidst the vegetation. A few exploratory steps off the trail, and every direction would look like every other. During the winter, there was the threat that the day would fade away. A few meditative moments on the footbridge, and the darkness and cold would set in. At any time of year, Rock Creek Park was a good place to kill people and dump their bodies.

As at the zoo, Reid bypassed the proximate points of interest to scout the locations north of the road bisecting the park. North of Military Road, the first potential location was a spur of the main trail that wound through the woods to reach a dead end at the creek. The spur was approximately 300 feet long, and the distal section that turned towards the water was boxed in by trees on either side. Even in winter, the leafless trees provided seclusion. The position of the spur, close to the road and trail, guaranteed a dependable flux of potential victims, from whom he could kill whomever he wanted. The only disadvantage was that the gunshots would be audible within an insufficiently deserted sphere of influence. Even in winter, there were bound to be people in the vicinity. Some of them were bound to hear the firing of the Glock. A motorist might drive by in a vehicle and stop, as he himself had done, or a jogger might pause in the midst of tying her shoelaces, or a ranger might look up from his survey of the trees. At home, Reid had spent the past two nights designing and constructing a custom-made sound suppressor, but he was not yet satisfied with the arrangement and orientation of the baffles within the can. What he was really trying to do was to prototype an ultimately superior firearms silencer that would slow the bullet to subsonic velocities and suppress the sound to sub-100-decibel noise levels, while, at the same time, distorting it out of recognition. As an ongoing engineering project, the suppressor was not yet ready for use, not even of a field testing nature. For the time being, Reid would have to compromise. He would have to settle for a sufficiently deserted location with a limited victim pool or a variegated selection of victims at the expense of optimal sequestration. He supposed that if he were going to compromise at all, then he might as well compromise further by acquiring a commercially available silencer to fit his semi-automatic pistol. Naturally, he wasn't going to buy one from a gun store in Maryland or Virginia, where the sale of silencers was legal to customers willing to submit an application to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Luckily for him, such accessories were available at work, but even so, he would have to conceal the acquisition, because everyone knew that he carried a revolver, and revolvers, unlike pistols, could not be silenced to any useful extent, as the propellant blast of the discharge escaped from a gap between the barrel and the cylinder rather than through the end of the barrel, where the silencer was attached.

On the drive north, the next stoppage station was a sizable parking lot just south of the point where the trail veered westwards, away from the road and the creek. Here, Reid had two options. First, he could follow the trail as it passed through the woods, parallel to a narrow tree-lined lane that exited Rock Creek Park towards Chevy Chase, Maryland. This area was extremely secluded. The lane was lightly travelled, especially during the early morning hours, and the trail was separated from the trees by a steep embankment. Along the trail, he could wait, all day if necessary, for a suitable victim to snatch, threaten, and force into the woods. In the woods, he could do whatever he wanted with the victim. Perhaps he could share some of his knowledge about the flora and fauna of the area. He could tell the victim about the 135 Eastern box turtles that roamed the woods, their movements constantly tracked by researchers via radio transmitters affixed to their mottled brown and orange carapaces. If the victim displayed a particular interest, then he could go on to explain that the Eastern box turtle was one species that should never be kept in captivity, because the gentle dainty reptiles lived only 30-50 years in captivity as opposed to 80 years in the wild. Else, he could shoot and kill the victim.

The second option was the creek itself, which lay only tens of feet off the beaten asphalt. While there were no official trails along the banks, the creek was easy to follow, and the water, though poor in quality, was enticingly cool and dip-worthy during the oppressively hot and humid DC summers. During the winter, the creek froze over, but the thin layer of ice on top was not strong enough to support the weight of the human body. Reid imagined himself perching on a large lichen-covered boulder on the near bank of the creek, rubbing his hands together and blowing on his fingers for warmth as he waited for a victim to approach. As along the trail, he could snatch, threaten, and force the victim into the woods. To enter the woods, they would have to cross the creek, so he and the victim would both experience the simple pleasure of wading through the water or sliding over and/or falling through the ice, the exact course of action contingent upon the meteorological trends for the week leading up to the Saturday or Sunday on which he committed the crime. Alternatively, he could wait on the far bank and aim his weapon from a distance. The victim would be a stranger who would be none the wiser that his aim, while significantly improved since aiming for a leg only to hit a head, remained not quite up to par. In this scenario, he would force the victim into the creek as he himself, if not warm, then dry, enjoyed the proceedings from afar, but not too far.

With a contented anticipatory whistle, Reid turned right out of the parking lot back onto Beach Drive. He continued north, passing several similar parking lots and turnouts on the right side of the road. All were departure points for a hike along the creek, and each was a good spot to sit in the car with the windows open on the first warm day of spring. Reid imagined himself eating a stack of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches as he sat in the car. He visualized his hand holding a sandwich. He could smell the peanut butter as he brought the sandwich closer to his mouth. The peanut butter oozed slowly as his fingers squeezed the bread around it. He squeezed too hard, and a tiny sticky morsel, half peanut butter and half jelly, fell out onto his pant leg. He stuck out his finger to wipe it away, but jolted his hand upwards before he could touch it. Directly ahead, the road curved sharply to the east, so he wrenched the steering wheel to the right just before he could drive into oncoming traffic. He breathed a sigh of relief as he tightened his fingers around the steering wheel. He felt his heart, full of strength and energy, pounding away beneath his purple sweater. His mind rejoiced that it had snapped out of its reverie before its owner could plow his flimsy jalopy into the glinting metallic jaws of the muffler-less Hummer bearing down from the opposite side of the road. Within a few minutes, everything returned to normal. Realistically, Reid had no intention of sitting in the car in the parking lot, neither to eat a sandwich or to wait for a victim to drive up, park, and hike into the woods, so he could follow and attack from behind. After today, he wasn't going to drive his car within Rock Creek Park at all. He had legs. He could park elsewhere and walk. Rock Creek Park was big, but not that big. Besides, he could use the exercise. What better hobby could he have than that of hiking through the woods and appreciating the natural world that he understood, and as a result, loved all the more?

For the rest of the drive, Reid paid no attention to the scenery. Based on the map, he already knew that there was an ideal location at the northern end of the park, near the DC-Maryland border, where the trail ran through the middle of the woods. In this area, residents from the affluent neighborhoods outside the park often jogged and hiked on weekends. Reid wondered if, among the affluent residents, there had been a family of hippies who had planted the marijuana patches nearby. Two years ago, a researcher trying to track down an Eastern box turtle, Turtle Number 72, had stumbled upon a sunny clearing where four-and-a-half-foot-tall _Cannabis_ plants flourished beneath a hole in the canopy opened by the felling of several large trees. Reid decided to take inspiration from the researcher. In this area, he would not actively look for victims to kill. Instead, he would look for marijuana patches or the wintertime remnants of such. While looking for marijuana patches, he would hopefully stumble upon desirable victims. If so, then he would shoot and kill them with his newly-acquired sound-suppressed Glock 17. Else, he would hike back to the affluent neighborhood in which he had parked his car, drive home, and fix himself a stack of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches to eat.

By the time Reid exited the park, it was dark and cold. He drove home and fixed himself a stack of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches to eat. While eating, he wondered if any of the rich people in the big houses had heard the unsuppressed 140-decibel gunshots.

* * *

The all-purpose supply closet down the hall from the BAU bullpen was exceedingly messy. On the shelves were undergrowths of dust bunnies from which loomed office supplies, computer accessories, and non-perishable food items. By mass, 80% of the food items consisted of a single substance. Reid was happy to see that the Coffee Shelf was fully stocked with Coffee. He grabbed a jar, wiped away the dust bunnies, and played the contents like a rattle as he lowered his gaze to the floor.

On the floor sat stacks of cardboard boxes holding various unwanted items that had been dumped away to collect dust out of sight, out of mind. In one box, parts of kitchen appliances lay scattered in the interstitial spaces between whole kitchen appliances. Reid spotted a Coffeemaker, probably broken, sitting at the bottom of the box. He considered adopting it, repairing it, and setting it up in his office to feed his uncontrollable needs with superior ease and convenience. Compared to his desk in the bullpen, his office was scores of steps farther from the Coffeemaker in the kitchen. It was a pain to walk up and down the stairs every time he wanted Coffee. Several times, he had sloshed burning hot liquid onto his hands as he had bounced his way up the stairs. Besides the physical inconvenience of the journey, each extra step was an additional disruption to mental flow. Already, he had considered purchasing a Coffeemaker for his office, but he would much rather rescue the old broken one. He liked old things, broken and whole. He hated the idea of the Coffeemaker languishing unloved at the bottom of the box when it could have enjoyed a second chance at living in his office. He decided to save the rescue operation for another day. Right now, he had more urgent concerns.

Next to the appliance box sat the gun boxes. The gun boxes held all manner of handgun parts, both the disembodied external components such as barrels, grips, hammers, and triggers, and the pins, springs, bearings, and catches that composed the invisible internal components that were most susceptible to random and untimely malfunction. There were ammunition, both cartridges and magazines, and accessories, including optics (sights, lights, and lasers), holsters (ankle, hip, and shoulder), and loaders (speed and magazine). Rolling around at the bottom of one box were several suppressors that fit different versions of Glock pistols. Agents of the FBI, unlike those of the CIA, used suppressors not to carry out political assassinations, but to protect their ears in enclosed spaces, within which 140-decibel gunshots were harmful to human hearing. Reid stuffed one specimen, a seven-inch-long model that fit both the Glock 17 and its compact sibling, the Glock 19, into his messenger bag, along with a set of holsters, just before Garcia snuck up on him from behind.

"Boo!" Garcia poked him in the back as he bent over the boxes.

"Augh!" Reid yelped in startled surprise.

"Whatcha doin', Sweet Genius?" Garcia giggled.

"Coff...Coffee," Reid held out the jar and shook it like a rattle.

"Ah, of course," Garcia shook her head knowingly. "Coffee at all times of day and night. So what brings you here to consume your $50 per week worth of coffee at 9 PM on a Saturday night?"

"The next case," Reid answered, backing out of the closet, closing the door, and waiting for the electronic keypad to beep itself locked. "I'm having trouble deciding which of two cases we should take next."

"Are either of them close to home?" Garcia asked.

"No, North Carolina and Georgia," Reid replied. "I don't think I should be picking cases based on location, Garcia."

"I know, I know," Garcia sighed as she led the way through the bullpen, up the stairs, and into his office. "But it _could_ help you break a tie, you know. I like to have my babies close to home whenever possible. You should keep that in mind for the future. For now, is there any way I can help? Maybe you can run the cases by me, and I can...Ick, ugh, no!" she covered her eyes as she spotted the crime scene photos spread out all over the desk.

"Sorry, Garcia!" Reid turned over the photos in a flurry of fingers and papers. "Actually, I _would_ like to run them by _someone_, and since you're the only one here..." he trailed off, slightly embarrassed to ask for an already offered favor.

"I'm all ears," Garcia moved around the desk to sit in the chair. "Go on, Genius, dazzle me!" she immediately regretted her choice of words, "Go on, Genius, disgust me!"

"OK," Reid cleared the desk to sit on it. "As I said, the two cases are in North Carolina and Georgia. Both are homicide cases involving women and children. In the North Carolina case, an UnSub has been abducting pregnant women from quiet suburban neighborhoods, driving them out to the countryside, shooting and killing them, and dumping their bodies on the sides of small secluded roads. So far, there have been six crimes, all involving victims abducted from three cities - Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill - known collectively as the Research Triangle for the high tech and biotech companies in the area or as the Triangle in reference to the three universities that dominate the region - Duke, NC State, and UNC."

"March Madness," Garcia nodded in recognition.

"March Madness?" Reid inquired, his curiosity piqued by the mention of madness.

"College basketball," Garcia replied.

"Oh," Reid instantly lost interest. "Anyway, I would normally have chosen this case, because the crimes are recent and ongoing, but there's something about the other case that I can't quite get out of my head."

"Details, details," Garcia waved her hands impatiently.

"In the Georgia case, the crimes started in early July," Reid continued. "There were a total of seven, all in the Atlanta area, each targeting a single mother with a single small child. All the children were two- or three-year-old boys. The victims were shot and killed in their homes in the middle of the night. In five cases, the bodies of the mothers and children were found together on the floors of the master bedrooms. In two cases, the bodies of the mothers were found, but the bodies of the children were missing. That's the part that's bothering me. I can't quite let go of the possibility that the children may still be alive. What if they _are_? If so, then we'd better take this case to find them, even though the last crime occurred in September, and the case is quickly going cold. And I know, I know...It's extremely unlikely for children to survive abduction for any length of time beyond 24 to 48 hours, so the cards are stacked against us...and them."

"But there's always a chance that they're still alive," Garcia said. "I'm not a profiler, but even I can tell that the UnSub broke away from his M.O. in two of the seven crimes. Maybe he didn't kill the kids, for whatever reason, probably for a reason as crazy as the one that caused him to start killing in the first place. Maybe he took them with him when he fled the scene. Maybe he kept them alive all these months. Remember that case with the boy nicknamed Peter, the one who was abducted when he was one year old to be raised and sold to pedophiles online? What if that's what's going on here? What if the UnSub is keeping the kids alive because they fit into some creepy sicko's deviant fantasies? Some of these pervs are looking for the smallest children, even newborns, to prey on. If there's any chance that the kids are still alive, then we've gotta...But then, there's that case in the Triangle with the pregnant women. An UnSub is killing mothers and children there too! It just so happens that the poor babies haven't even been born yet! I can see why you're having trouble picking a case. I don't know what I'd do if I were you."

"In the Triangle, the last crime occurred this past Tuesday," Reid said.

"The same day you guys got back from Niagara Falls," Garcia commented.

"Yeah," Reid said softly. "The crimes started in late October. Six crimes, twelve victims, two for the price of one."

"So these cases are pretty much equally heinous," Garcia said. "In both cases, twelve victims have been killed. In one, there are two missing children, status unknown, but the crimes appear to have stopped. In the other, the crimes might go on forever and ever if we don't hunt down the UnSub right away."

"Exactly," Reid nodded.

"If Hotch were here, then he'd be able to tell you which case to pick," Garcia said.

"If Hotch were here, then _I'd_ be able to tell _him_ which case I _picked_," Reid said.

"Huh?" Garcia frowned. "I thought you were having trouble deciding?"

"Not exactly," Reid shook his head. "I know which case I _should_ pick. That's the North Carolina case. Better to stop an UnSub who's still killing than to go on a wild goose chase for victims who are most likely dead."

"But you can't help thinking what _if_," Garcia nodded in understanding. "What if the kids are still alive? What if the BAU taking or not taking their case is the difference between life or death for them? As we speak, their case is going colder and colder. We're their last hope, if they've got any hope left at all."

"Yeah," Reid sighed. "Actually, to tell you the truth, I've pretty much settled on the North Carolina case. I just needed to air out the other one too, just to get it off my chest, and as a sanity check. Now that I've told you about it, everything's clearer, and I'm sure I'm making the right decision. First, we've got to hunt down the UnSub who's still killing. Then, we can consider the other UnSub. If he's kept the kids alive for this long, then maybe he'll keep them alive for a little while longer. If not, then we're too late anyway. It is what it is. Thanks for listening, Garcia."

"Aww, no problem, Sweet Genius," Garcia patted him on the leg. "I'm always happy to listen, even to tales of kidnapping and murder, as long as you don't try to show me any of the crime scene photos. Even without your eidetic memory, those pictures get stuck in my head for a very long time. Every time I see one, it gets burned onto my retinas for weeks!"

"I know what you mean," Reid said. "There's a neurological explanation for why that is, for why gory pictures get stuck in your head forever while you can't remember what you ate for lunch on any given day. The brain preferentially records information that induces an emotional response. Emotional arousal is associated with enhanced encoding, which is the processing and combining of incoming stimuli to generate a single coherent experience, then construct, that can be stored in the physical structures of the brain. Compared to neutral stimuli, arousing stimuli are more likely to be retained over time via long-term potentiation."

"Ohh, arousal!" Garcia wiggled her eyebrows in a lecherous manner.

"You're more likely to remember the lion or tiger that tried to eat you than the cheeseburger that you tried to eat," Reid summarized, ignoring Garcia's comments as had long ago become a habit of his.

"Because it's more arousing?" Garcia continued. "But what about the people watching the nature documentary of the lions and tigers trying to eat you? What if they were eating really delicious bacon cheeseburgers at the same time? Which stimuli would be more arousing for them?"

"Garcia!" Reid buried his face in his hands in a show of exasperation. "Lions and tigers would never try to eat me at the same time, because lions and tigers do not inhabit overlapping ecosystems, not even at the zoo."

"Ohh, the zoo! Speaking of the zoo, I've been trying to get Kevin to go there with me for the longest time now," Garcia complained. "He doesn't want to go, because he's afraid of screaming swarming children, but I want to go see the pandas. You know how much I love pandas, especially the babies. I didn't even get to see little Tai Shan before we sent him off to China. I hope he's found a good mate there. I hear you can visit the panda reserve in China, and for a hefty price, hold a giant panda on your lap for a few minutes a pop. It just sits there like a giant stuffed animal! If I ever go to China, that's going to be my first stop."

"Did you know that in order to avoid habituating young pandas to human contact, the researchers at the Wolong Nature Reserve have started wearing panda costumes when handling the babies? The costumes are quite realistic, and the babies can't tell the differece between pandas and people in panda costumes. I don't know if people can tell the difference either. I did a double take when I first saw the photos."

"Fursuits, eh?" Garcia considered with a fascinated smile on her face. "I wonder how Kevin...Hey, Reid, what time is it?"

"Half past nine," Reid answered, checking his watch and breathing a sigh of relief that he was never going to find out the nature of the association between Kevin Lynch and panda fursuits. "What are you doing here anyway? It's Saturday night. Don't people have better things to do on Saturday nights?"

"Kevin and I went out to dinner near Georgetown, and we were just heading home when he remembered that he had to check over some code and send it off to his boss," Garcia explained. "He's been working on a program to hack the authentication protocols of all the major telecom companies, so we can access the cell phone records of their customers without having to issue warrants showing probable cause. I've been helping him with a couple of the sticky areas."

"Um, is that...That's not legal, is it?" Reid frowned and squinted.

"Of course not!" Garcia replied brightly. "It's only a teeny-tiny step down from warrantless wiretapping, but think of it this way. It's going to help us track down UnSubs, so it's not completely evil, right? It's just Big Brother looking out for the Greater Good!"

"Ohh...Hmm..." Reid took out his cell phone and turned it off.

"Oh, come on, Sweet Genius, like _you've_ got anything to hide!" Garcia teased. "But then, you never know..." she reconsidered. "It's always the quiet ones who are the most deadly. Are you leading a double life, Reid? Ohhhhhhh! Have you got a secret girlfriend? A secret wife? A mail order bride? A harem? Love children?"

"Garcia," Reid mumbled in complaint.

"OK, OK, I'll leave you alone for now," Garcia stood up and walked to the doorway. "I go! Off to resume my hot date! I wonder what's taking Kevin so long. Maybe he ran into problems with the code. Uh oh, I'd better go help him fix it before his head explodes. He's got a condition that I call 'Code Rage', after 'Road Rage'. Whenever a chunk of code fails to compile on the first try, his face turns bright red, and his eyes bulge out of their sockets, and his forehead pulsates like his brain is going to blow up behind it. It's a very serious condition, but not exactly uncommon among those of us who code for a living. It's dangerous for both sufferers and caretakers."

"Well, you'd better go take care of that then," Reid smiled a little. "I'm going to go home and get some sleep," he yawned and picked up his messenger bag. "See you on Monday, Garcia. You know where we're going," he waved, turned off the lights, and closed the door. "Georgia," he muttered to himself.

* * *

On the floor in the bedroom, Reid laid out the items that he needed for his upcoming trip.

First, the clothing that would make him look like a normal person.

Gray T-Shirt with orange raglan sleeves, old and faded, snug around the shoulders, a reminder of an ill-conceived attempt to recapture a sliver of his younger childhood. In college, at Caltech, he had played very briefly on an intramural baseball team, the kind that was never expected to win a game or even to play past the fifth inning mercy rule, the kind on which the players were dumped into the shower, fully clothed in their self-made silk-screened uniforms, to be washed some sense into in the event that they pulled a "Tonya Harding" to beat a team of Little Leaguers from a Dickensian orphanage where the pale sickly children subsisted on onions and gruel. One time, he had accidentally hit a baseball that had been soft-tossed to him, and due to the superluminal shock waves generated by the tear in the spacetime continuum, he had sprained his ankle, painfully and with a pop, while crossing home plate to run to first base. That had been the end of his tenure on the nerdily yet profanely named "Buckyballs", for which he had continued rooting on the sidelines amongst shopping carts crammed with bottles of store-bought and homemade alcoholic beverages, without which the game was neither worth watching for the spectators or worth playing for the players.

Red flannel sweatshirt, soft and comfortable, a souvenier from a high school field trip to Hoover Dam, one that he had never worn before, because he had purchased it in an adult size not for his then _Cannabis_-plant-tall self.

Baggy cargo pants bearing tens of pockets to store the various conflagrating and deflagrating tools and materials that he had carried on trips into the Southern California desert. After graduating from college, he had continued to go on pyro trips with his friends from Ricketts House. During his second year of graduate school, after completing his Ph.D. in mathematics and before committing his mother to a mental institution, he had turned the same age as the college freshmen, but they had all looked up to him as "Dr. Spencer Reid, Caltech & Ricketts House Alum, Math 1 & Chem 1 TA, Four-Time Winner of the Dabney House Drag Competition, and Grand Master of Pyrotechnics", more commonly known as "Spender", after the character in "The Martian Chronicles" who had shot and killed six of his crewmates shortly after the Fourth Expedition had touched down on Mars. Those years after college, during which he had been one of the few courageous grad students not afraid to associate with the terrifying undergrads, not even with those psychotic pyromaniacs from that house of Satan worshippers amongst whom he had cavorted since the age of twelve, had held the only times in his life when he had ever felt like a big brother. While they had lasted, the feelings had been nice.

Hiking boots and wool socks, accompaniments to the cargo pants, survivors of many youthful adventures, for which the only motive was to see if one could and the only intent was that one wanted to.

Coat, hat, scarf, gloves, responsible wintertime accoutrements of his adult life, in which "The Mad Scientist" and "The Absent-Minded Professor" had switched sides on the exaggeration-attenuation seesaw.

Second, the accessories.

Hip holster, concealment version, perfect for hiding a handgun beneath his coat. Hand-held GPS, receiver, not transmitter. Cell phone, off. Water bottle, empty, but fillable with water from the tap or drinking fountain. Snacks, chocolate and jerky, energy-rich bang-for-the-buck exemplars of the critical food groups. Gum, because no coffee all day.

Third, the weapons.

The revolvers, Smith & Wesson .357 (Government Issue), Colt .38 (Government Issue), Colt .38 (Not). The pistols, Glock 19 (Government Issue), Glock 17 (Yes And No), Evolution-9 Suppressor (Sure, Why Not?).

From the lineup of weapons, Reid selected the Glock 17. He attached the suppressor to the pistol. With the suppressor, the noise of the gunshots would be attenuated by approximately 30 decibels, from 140 to 110 decibels. On the logarithmic decibel scale, the attenuation represented a thousand-fold decrease in intensity and an eight-fold decrease in loudness compared to the noise of the seventeen practice rounds that he had fired, earlier today, into the tree trunks near the northern boundary of Rock Creek Park.

He stood up to look over the items on the floor. With his bare foot, he nudged the accessories, one by one, next to the pile of clothing. Bending over, he laid the pistol on top. He gathered up the other weapons and placed them in the cabinet of the nightstand. Satisfied that all was ready for a Sunday walk in the park, he turned off the lights, crawled into bed, and curled up under the covers.

In bed, he fell asleep within minutes. Before he fell asleep, he made a mental checklist of everyone he would _not_ shoot and kill if he stumbled upon them in the woods.

First, children and animals.

Second, his family at work. Hotch, Hotch's son Jack, Hotch's brother Sean, Hotch's ex-sister-in-law Jessica. Rossi, Rossi's three ex-wives (whoever they were). Morgan, Morgan's mother Fran, Morgan's two sisters Desiree and Sarah. Prentiss, Prentiss's mother Elizabeth, Prentiss's father (whoever he was). Garcia, Garcia's boyfriend Kevin, Garcia's four brothers (whoever they were). Dearly departed Elle. Dearly departed Gideon, Gideon's son Stephen, Gideon's ex-wife (whoever she was), Gideon's current lady friend (whoever she was). Dearest departed JJ, JJ's son Henry, JJ's husband Will.

Third, his family. Mom. And Dad.

* * *

Eviler smile. OK, I admit it, we didn't play intoxicated baseball at Caltech. We played intoxicated kickball instead, because the ball is bigger so it's easier to make contact.

Moar plox (thanks Swimdraconian): A Sunday walk in the park.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Dressing up for a Sunday walk in the park was like dressing up for Halloween. The finishing touches required the utmost care and attention to detail. Reid pulled a knitted wool cap over his head, arranged his hair beneath it, and checked his appearance in the bathroom mirror.

"Not coooooool," the jury returned the verdict.

"Not cool," Reid wrinkled his nose at his reflection.

With a disgusted sigh, he pulled off the cap and tossed it away. He grabbed a soft cotton bucket hat and tamped it down over his hair that was now sticking up in every direction due to its brush with the knitted wool cap.

"Nooooooo!" the jury howled in unanimous decision.

"No," Reid shook his head in the pink hat.

He pulled off the hat and tossed it away, wondering why he owned such an unwearable article of clothing. As soon as he wondered, he remembered. Mom had bought it for him to wear on high school field trips to avoid sunburn. It was pink, because she had bought it from the women's section of the department store. At the time, he had been tremendously relieved that it had been too big for him. Even today, he shuddered to imagine the consequences of wearing it to school then or work now.

Predictably, the third time was the charm. Reid put on a baseball cap, adjusted the strap at the back, then his hair around his ears, then the brim over his eyes.

"Perrrrrrrfect," the jury pronounced with twelve winks and twenty-four thumbs-up.

"Perfect," Reid gave his reflection two thumbs-up.

The baseball cap was a gift from his friend Ethan, who had purchased it to memorialize a trip that he had been lucky to survive. During the summer of 1998, while Spencer had been continuing his undergraduate research project as a Ph.D. thesis in mathematics, Ethan had driven up to Mesquite to take part in the inaugural Running of the Bulls, a semi-dangerous hemi-deadly affair that was a crude copycat of the original folk festival in Pamplona, Spain and that had been initiated to promote the popular perception of Nevada as a utopian stomping ground of chaos, lawlessness, and anarchy. Miraculously, Ethan had returned with souvenir T-shirts, hats, and pins instead of cranial, orthopedic, and gastrointestinal reconstruction surgeries. From his triumphant adventures, he had sent a postcard, along with one of the hats, to his friend Spencer, who had worn it that summer to avoid sunburn whenever he had poked his head out of Sloan, however briefly, to bask in the baking hot air composing the radiant blue sky. While wearing the hat, Spencer had never considered joining Ethan for the Running of the Bulls. At sixteen-going-on-seventeen, he had considered himself young, energetic, and somewhat adventurous, but within the realm of thrill-seeking, he had always stuck with mathematical proofs, synthetic schemes, and circuit diagrams, along with healthy doses of setting stuff on fire and blowing stuff up, whenever the Greek symbols talked back, the solution failed to turn purple, or a finger became soldered to another finger. All the pyrotechnics, even the ones that, to the untrained eye, appeared to have run amok, had always been more or less under his control. In contrast, he had never grasped the appeal of running away from, while being chased down by, herds of large angry animals with horns on their heads.

With the baseball cap in place, Reid checked his appearance once more from head to toe. Since the previous night, he had made a few minor adjustments to his "Normal Person" costume. First, the hip holster had been replaced by a shoulder holster, because the pistol-suppressor combo was too long to conceal at the hip. Second, the bulky Hoover Dam sweatshirt had been replaced by a thinner "I Heart NY" sweatshirt, because the shoulder holster, complete with holstered pistol-suppressor combo, fit better over "I Heart NY" than Hoover Dam. Third, the food items had been redistributed amongst the pockets of the pants, with the melt-prone chocolate descending into the cooler lower pockets and the freeze-prone jerky ascending into the warmer upper pockets. Finally, the belt had been removed from the pants, so the pants hung down a little baggier, and more importantly, a little longer than before, as they had been purchased when he had been two or three inches shorter. Reid was slightly embarrassed to admit that he looked forward to trudging about in the slovenly pants. They brought back memories of a freer happier time when he had worn, almost exclusively, ill-fitting clothing purchased at random from the bulk clothing outlets at the ghetto-ish eastern end of Pasadena. They made him feel young, energetic, and somewhat adventurous at the same time that they made him look normal and blend in as an outdoorsy "Weekend Warrior" type hiking through the woods on a gray cloudy Sunday that held the promise of snow. Wearing the pants that rustled with the contents of the pockets, he felt prepared to go forth and make his mark upon the world. Wearing the baseball cap with the brim pulled tightly over his eyes, he felt himself shielded and safe from harm.

One last chug of Coffee, and it was high time to set off. Reid locked the door of his apartment, bounced down the hallway, and bounded down the stairs two steps at a time. Outside, the day was bleak and cold. In the past, he had never been much of an early bird, but now, he finally understood that some things were worth getting up for in the morning.

* * *

At half past nine on a Sunday morning, the spur was deserted, but the road and trail were not. Reid leaned against the trunk of an oak tree, bored. From his position in the woods, he glimpsed the occasional leg or foot tramping down the trail and caught the occasional engine rumbling down the road. Normally, the sights and sounds of the park would have streamed through his subconscious senses, unobserved and unprocessed until he mined them for their bits of information, but today, they shoved themselves into his conscious mind, the better to irritate him. Reid was terribly annoyed that none of those legs or feet or wheels had carried their owners down the spur. All morning, the only person who had come down the spur had been an old man pulled along by a golden retriever. As a victim, the old man had been ideal, but true to his thoughts, Reid had resisted the urge to draw his gun on account of the dog.

At a quarter to ten, he was just about to abandon his post when he spotted movement beyond the bushes lining the other side of the spur. Venturing closer, he observed a tall sturdy figure approaching the drinking fountain. He guessed that the figure had been walking along the creek before he had been diverted at the behest of his thirst. For a moment, he hesitated, debating with himself the merits and demerits of this particular victim. On the one hand, the middle-aged man in the Mets baseball cap was large and formidable, the kind of thug who could beat him to a pulp with his hands tied behind his back. On the other hand, he was here.

"Hi," Reid ambled up to the victim bent over the drinking fountain.

"Hey," the victim lapped up some water, swallowed, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"Think it's going to snow today?" Reid asked casually.

"Yeah, probably," the victim replied. "That's what the weather girl said on TV this morning. That's why I'm out here, getting my jog in before the shit hits the fan," he referred to the abject incompetence with which the residents and municipality of DC handled each and every sprinkling of snow.

"I know what you mean," Reid snickered. "That's why I'm out here too, looking for a couple of turtles that haven't moved much in the past couple of days. Before I came out here, I was really worried about them, wondering how they were holding up during the current cold snap, but I just found one in the bushes back there," he jerked his thumb behind him. "Here I was, imagining the worst case scenario, and there she is, plodding along, rooting for grubs and mushrooms in the dirt."

"Oh yeah, the famous turtles!" the victim nodded in recognition. "There's one down there? Mind if I take a look? I've never seen one before, even though I've looked. Do you work for the Park Service here?"

"No, I'm just a volunteer tracker," Reid lied easily. "There's a whole network of us helping the researchers monitor the turtle population in the park. We take turns tracking them down in a pinch, during cold snaps or after blizzards or whenever the weather gets unusually rough."

"Sounds like fun," the victim pushed through the bushes to clamber down the embankment along the spur.

"Want to join us?" Reid asked. "We're currently looking for new members. Several of our regulars have moved away in the past year. It's a good way to relax on the weekends. Maybe even blow off some steam from work."

"Tracking down turtles helps you blow off steam from work?" the victim raised his eyebrows skeptically.

"Yeah, believe it or not, it does," Reid laughed. "It's almost as good as a day at the shooting range. Here, let me show you," he guided the victim into the trees.

"Here, 93, where are you, 93?" he hunched over as he walked, searching for Turtle Number 93. "Here, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie," he worked his way westwards in large swift steps, leading the victim farther into the woods.

"Technically, we're not supposed to name the turtles, but I can't really help it," he straightened to confide in the victim. "They're just so small and delicate and adorable. Good pets too, but it's not right to keep them in captivity. Better to let them roam free in their natural habitat. Did you know that the Eastern box turtle is the state reptile of North Carolina? That's where we're going for the next case."

"Come on, Maggie, there's a new friend here to meet you," he bent over to look for the turtle again. "Don't you want to make a new friend today?" he pushed aside several clusters of leaves, searching under them for the elusive turtle. "You can always root for grubs later. They're not going anywhere, you know. They're even slower than you are. And the mushrooms? The mushrooms don't move at all, you know. Are they really that yummy? Always looked kind of nasty to me! Slimy and dirty with cobwebs all over them. And they're poisonous too. Well, not for you, but for us. You don't have to eat them anymore, you know. There's no one here to eat you, so there's no reason for you to make yourself poisonous anymore. Come on, Maggie! It's just me, your old friend, and I brought you a new friend to play with. Where are you, Maggie? Come out, come out, wherever you are! Are you scared, Maggie? Don't be a scaredy-cat! There's nothing to be afraid of here."

"She's just shy," he straightened to reassure the victim.

"Yeah, sure," the victim glanced in all directions, refusing to look him in the eye, as if embarrassed for eavesdropping upon a private conversation between the strange young man and his beloved turtle. "Well, I've got to get going now," he checked his watch for an excuse to leave. "Looks like Maggie doesn't want to make a new friend today. Those grubs and mushrooms must be extra yummy today. But thanks anyway, I'll keep an eye out for turtles the next time I come out here."

"Oh, you're leaving already?" Reid pursed his lips in a sigh of disappointment. "But she's right around here! I know she is! She's just good at hiding. All the turtles are. Did you know that the shell of the Eastern box turtle closely resembles the winter leaf of the tulip poplar? At this time of year, with all the fallen leaves on the ground, it's really hard to spot the turtles. You've got to be really patient to track them down. Incidentally, the tulip poplar is one of the distinguishing plants in the park, just like the Eastern box turtle is one of the distinguishing animals. Isn't that cool? That the famous flora and fauna look alike? Or rather, that the famous fauna have evolved to resemble the famous flora?"

"Yeah, sure, you bet," the victim mumbled dully as he turned away to head back to the spur.

"Oh, look!" Reid suddenly spotted something under the leaves. "Hey, Maggie, there you are!" he bent over to pick up the imaginary turtle. "What do you think?" he straightened to accost the victim. "Of all the turtles in the park, Maggie's the only one with purple and white streaks on her carapace. See?" he ran his finger along the imaginary streaks on the imaginary carapace of the imaginary turtle. "The purple and white streaks alternate, just like the black and white stripes of a zebra. Isn't that cool? Maggie's like a teeny-tiny little reptilian zebra, except she's more well-adapted, because she's got a shell to keep her safe when the lions show up for dinner. Look, isn't she beautiful?" he held out the imaginary turtle for the victim to inspect.

"Ummmmmmm...Yeah, sure, you bet," the victim humored the obviously insane young man.

"Oh, wait, this is just a rock," Reid inspected the imaginary turtle, found the smooth grayish surface lacking in either brown and orange spots or purple and white streaks, and tossed the heavy egg-shaped object over his shoulder. "I don't know where the turtles are or what they do at this time of year. Not sure how cold-blooded reptiles survive the winters here. I've never seen one before."

"But you just said..." the victim froze in mid-sentence.

Reid drew his gun, aiming the double-length barrel at the victim's chest. He shifted it upwards to aim at the Adam's apple, then again between the eyes, then again at the Mets logo on the baseball cap.

"I lied," Reid shrugged breezily. "Sorry about that. It's nothing personal. I lie a lot now. It's becoming pathological. I can't really help it. Just like I can't really help naming the turtles. And I can't really help doing this either."

"What...What do you want from me?" the victim stared, eyes bulging and throat gulping in an unattractive reptilian manner. "Look, you can have whatever you want," he reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet. "Take it!" he held out his wallet. "This too!" he unbuckled his watch. "Please...I won't say anything to anyone...Really I won't. I won't go to the police, OK? I've never seen you before, OK?"

"Put those away," Reid ordered softly. "I don't want your money or your watch. Do I look like a mugger to you? I really hope not. That wasn't what I was going for. That's not what I'm here for. As I said, I'm here to blow off some steam from work. It's been really stressful for me these past couple of weeks at work. It's the cases. I've been picking them, so they've been much more stressful than usual. It's been wearing me out. Screening cases and solving cases and setting traps for UnSubs and setting traps for victims and setting traps for colleagues and making up alternate realities to play out and playing out alternate realities that are made up and shooting and strangling and shooting people at each and every opportunity. It's been really exhausting for me. That's why I'm out here, blowing off some steam, so I can be ready and refreshed for the next case. I used to do the same thing in school, you know, but in a different way. Whenever things got really stressful at school, whenever the term started taking too long, I'd go out to the desert with my friends, back when I had friends like me. We'd drive out to a flat sunken area, maybe a dry lakebed where it wasn't too cold at night, and we'd set stuff on fire and blow stuff up the whole night long, where no one could see us or bug us. Afterwards, we'd feel ready and refreshed for midterms or finals or labs or research projects or whatever. It was a lot of fun while it lasted, but I can't really do stuff like that anymore. I'm a grown-up now, so I've decided to do this instead. As I said, tracking down turtles is almost as good as a day at the shooting range."

"Listen up," Reid ordered firmly as he withdrew his gun to aim it at the sky. "Three little rules. First, walk. Second, don't talk. Third, there is no third. This way," he glanced, then gestured, towards the trees to the west, deeper into the woods.

At his gesture, the victim glanced in the same direction, then back at him, then down at the gun, making a calculation and showing the work all over his face. With a sharp lurch, he shifted his stance to tackle his attacker from the right side, seeking to knock the gun out of the right hand. In theory, it was the right decision. In theory, it was a good move. In practice, it didn't work out.

Physically, Reid was not the type of person who could hit a baseball with a bat, but he _was_ fast when given the chance to run, as long as he didn't sprain his ankle crossing home plate from the righthanded side of the batter's box. He could not beat Morgan in a fistfight, but he _could_ beat Morgan in a footrace, as long as he didn't trip over either of his own two feet on the way to the finish line. He was quick on his feet in the same way that, as a scientist, engineer, and magician, he was quick with his hands. In the same way that he was the fastest draw in the BAU, he turned in a flash and side-stepped the charge. In the same way that he was the poorest shot, he aimed the gun and squeezed the trigger, shooting the victim in the head instead of the chest, for which he had aimed and missed and aimed and hit before. He scooted out of the way as the victim crumpled face-down onto the ground. The victim fell, then lay still. Blood seeped out of the exit wound in the back of the head and trickled down the face and neck to stain the dirt along with the blood that leaked out of the entry wound in the front. The baseball cap had not been much protection after all. Reid had no doubt that the victim was dead. The only doubt was whether anyone passing through the area had heard the single gunshot that had sounded more like the firing of a pellet gun than a pistol. Even so, the noise had been much too loud.

A quick once-over of the crime scene, no photographs needed, and it was high time to flee. As he struck out into the woods to the north, Reid exhaled a breath of warm moist air. He exhaled another and another and another, each small white cloud leaping out, frolicking about, and floating away for himself and himself alone. With each breath, the force of his lungs propagated from his core to amplify the power of his hands and the strength of his stride. It was not the first time that he had killed someone, but to his delight, it sure felt like it.

* * *

North of Brigham Drive, the narrow tree-lined lane leading out of the park, Reid stopped for a snack and also to consider the next crime in light of the previous crime. The previous crime, while satisfying, had been brief in duration and clunky in execution, so he was not entirely pleased with it. In the eyes of a perfectionist, the means had not lived up to the ends, and the whole affair had violated an important principle of living.

In life, the journey was more important than the destination. The destination was death, so the journey, whether the living of one's own life or the taking of another's, was to be experienced to its fullest extent, without rushing to shoot and kill the victim as he had done earlier today. For his actions, Reid felt slightly ashamed. He was somewhat disappointed in himself. He both knew and felt that he should have stuck it out longer on the spur, passing over the first candidate and biding his time for a more suitable victim to approach. A more suitable victim would not have been a large formidable man with the physical aptitude and resultant psychological wherewithal to attack him and force his finger upon the trigger. A more suitable victim would have been a short slender woman with her hair in a braid, who should have learned, from the story of "Little Red Riding Hood", that it was dangerous to walk through the woods alone. The woods were full of big bad wolves, and big bad wolves, who lived hour-to-hour without knowing where their next meals were coming from, were always hungry, no matter how much they had just stuffed themselves the hour before.

The petite middle-aged woman approached just as Reid popped a chunk of jerky-wrapped chocolate into his mouth. In a rush, he chewed and swallowed the savory-sweet treat before stepping into the trail to greet the victim.

"Excuse me, Ma'am!" Reid flagged down the victim jogging towards him on the gravel path. "Can you do me a favor, please?" he enunciated each of his words to the extreme, flattening the "aaaaaaam" on the "Maaaaaaa'am" and the "eeeeeeeze" on the "pleeeeeeeze" until he sounded like Eliza Doolittle trying to perfect, "The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain!"

"Sure, what is it?" the victim stopped, but continued jogging in place.

"I know this sounds kind of strange, but, um, can you, uh, can you check to see if there's any chocolate on my teeth, please?" Reid bared his teeth in a wide smile, the better to show her them.

"Nope, looks good to me!" the victim giggled at the unusual request from the awkward young man. "Let me guess, you're waiting for your girlfriend to meet you here, and you don't want her to see you with anything on your teeth? Wish my husband still cared about stuff like that! But after twenty years of marriage, well, you know..."

"No, not really," Reid shook his head in denial. "I don't have a girlfriend, and I don't want one either. I don't think it would be a good idea for me to have a girlfriend at this stage of my life. If I had one, then there's no telling what I'd do to h...I mean, what would happen to h..." he cut himself off, rolled his eyes upwards to organize his thoughts, then made a decision to do something wet and wild and utterly unplanned.

"Actually..." he started nervously, licking his lips and tasting a vague chocolatey flavor upon them. "Actually, um, do you, uh, do you have a daughter or a niece or a friend or someone?" he blinked sweetly. "Someone nice and smart and pretty and close to my age? Someone who can be my girlfriend? Can you give me her phone number, please? Or her address for me to track her down at home?" he smiled hopefully.

"Oh, uh, I'm sorry, but I've got to get going now..." the victim frowned at the disturbing request and jogged away as fast as she could without breaking into a run.

"Wait, Ma'am, wait!" Reid jogged after her. "Can you do me another favor, please?" he opened his coat to show her his gun without acknowledging it in any other way. "Can you walk with me for a minute, please? We've got to get off this trail before someone comes along. If someone comes along, then they're going to see us here. If someone sees us here, then I'm going to have to shoot them. I'm going to have to shoot them, probably lots of times, to kill them. If I shoot and kill someone here, then it's going to be all your fault that they're dead. You seem like a nice person. You wouldn't want me to shoot and kill someone because of you, would you?"

"Please...Please don't hurt me," the victim backed away as he stepped forwards to loom over her. "Please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry about before. I can give you some phone numbers if you..."

"No, thank you," Reid rejected the offer. "I was just kidding before. That was just me thinking out loud. Just thinking and imagining and wondering what it would be like to have a girlfriend and what I'd do to her and what she'd look like when her body was found. I mean, if she still had a body to be found. But as I said, I'm not interested in dating anyone right now. I'm much too busy at work to have a relationship, and when I'm not working, I've got a hobby that takes up all my spare time, so I can't possibly juggle a girlfriend along with my job and my hobby. Unless I combined all three, I guess? Hmm, I wonder how that would work? Get a girlfriend. Kill her. Get another. Kill her. Get another. Kill her. Rinse and repeat until a detective at the Metropolitan Police Department notices that there's a serial killer offing young blonde-haired blue-eyed women in DC. The detective sends me the case. I review the case, one of many. I like it. I take it. I investigate the murders of thirty or forty of my former girlfriends. Note that I said 'former', not 'ex', because all of them were still dating me when I killed them. They're only 'former', because they're dead. Then..." he stopped as he gazed into the terrified blue eyes of the small brunette woman. "Oh, don't worry, Ma'am, you don't fit the victimology for that particular case. You're married already, and you're much too old for me. I'd prefer to kill someone younger, someone closer to my own age, someone in her 20s, no older than 30, 35 tops. You don't fit the victimology for that particular case. You fit the victimology for this particular case. This case has no victimology. But don't worry, Ma'am, I'm not going to hurt you as long as you do exactly what I tell you. Can you do that for me, please?" he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her off the trail towards the steep embankment leading up into the woods. "Three little rules. First, walk. Second, don't talk. Third, there is no third. Please?" he tilted his head up the hill.

"Please, I don't want to go up there. I'm sorry...Please let me go..." the victim squirmed within his grasp and squeaked out her pleas in an annoyingly high-pitched voice, the kind that female telemarketers faked on the phone to trick elderly victims into purchasing their useless valueless products amd services.

Reid didn't like the sound of her voice. The more he heard it, the less he wanted to hear it. For a moment, he considered shooting her to cut off her voice, but he refrained, because she was such an ideal victim. Wrap her up in a red hooded cape, dress him up in a gray furry costume, and it would have been a scene straight out of a bad live-action remake of an animated Disney classic that should have but had never been made. To shut her up, he drew his gun and waved the barrel up the embankment, flashing her a wide-eyed expectant look and stamping his foot impatiently against the ground. For added effect, he tapped his finger against the trigger. At first, he wasn't sure if the effect was dramatic or comedic, but she clarified the issue as soon as she stepped forwards to climb up the embankment. He followed closely behind, pushing himself up the hill in a series of quick nimble steps without muddying his boots, as she had muddied her shoes, through the sludge under the leaves. At the top, he grabbed her by the arm, dragged her for a few minutes through the desolate grayish-brown landscape, and halted under the bare branches of a large majestic tulip poplar. He turned her towards the north, away from the tree trunk, then towards the south, into the tree trunk, then in circles, around and around and around, until the two of them reeled dizzily over the tilting forest floor.

"That was fun!" Reid laughed as he stumbled over a rock, fell into the leaves, and pulled the victim down with him. "Wasn't that fun?" he scooped up a handful of leaves and tossed them into the air, then over her head, then over his own head in the baseball cap.

"No, no, no, don't go!" he scrambled up to wrap his arms around her as she twisted out of his grasp. "Don't worry, Ma'am, I'm going to let you go soon," he pressed the gun over various spots on her neck and face, testing the firmness of the flesh and observing the rebound of the skin after the removal of the barrel. "Don't worry, Ma'am, I'm not going to keep you here forever," he smoothed her bangs over her forehead and flipped her braid behind her back.

"I just need a minute to catch my breath, OK?" he breathed rapidly, nearly hyperventilating in his eagerness to demonstrate. "Just a minute to breathe, OK? Just breathe. Breathing, breathing. OK, breath caught. OK, ready and refreshed," he suddenly let go of her, pushing her away from him and into a large lichen-covered boulder.

Shocked, she froze in place, eyelids fluttering and lips quivering, before leaping up to make her escape. She turned towards the south, back in the direction from which they had come, but he crawled after her to block her path.

"No, no, no, not that way! This way!" he pointed towards the north, into the most remote section of Rock Creek Park. "This way! Run! Run this way!" he pointed his gun in the same direction. "Please?" he demonstrated again, standing up to jog in place over the leaves.

She hesitated. He aimed the gun and tapped his finger against the trigger. She took off. He stood in place and stamped his foot against the ground. She looked back. He waved. She looked away. He chased. She was fast, but he was faster.

"Faster! Faster, please!" Reid chased the fleeing victim, yelling at the top of his lungs every time one of his feet touched down and lifted off. "Faster, please! Faster! I'm catching up! Don't let me catch up, please! Believe me, Ma'am, you don't want me to catch up with you!"

"50 meters!" he ran and yelled. "That's the range of this gun! That's the range of my gun! I stole it from my last victim, so it's mine now! Finders keepers! He wouldn't shoot me, so I shot him and stole his gun! And this wasn't even the first gun I've ever stolen! Don't get me wrong, Ma'am, I really like the revolver, but this one, this gun has got much better range! With this gun, I can shoot and miss from much farther away! 50 meters! That's 5 seconds for the fastest human sprinters! I'm not that fast, but I'm not slow!"

"Hey, wait up, Ma'am! Why are you running away from me? I'm sorry about before! I hope I didn't offend you in any way! I was just kidding about your daughter or niece or friend or whoever! But thanks for giving me the idea! I think I'm going to try it out! Work, hobby, girlfriend! I'm going to be so normal! Morgan's going to be shocked! Rossi's going to have a heart attack! Garcia's going to pinch my cheeks and shed a tear that they all grow up so fast! I'm going to write a letter to tell Gideon! And Mom too! Thank you so much for the great idea! It's going to be so much fun for me!"

"Hey, Ma'am, all this running is getting kind of boring!" he picked up the pace. "I've always hated running! Do you know why? Because it's boring! What can we do to make it less boring? Maybe we can play a game! Hey, let's play a game, OK? 50 meters! That's the range of this gun! But meters is metric! I'm a scientist and engineer, so I'm good at metric, but what about you, Ma'am? Are you good at metric too? Let's play it safe, OK? Let's convert metric units into English units! So we both know exactly how far 50 meters is! Can you help me, please? What's 50 meters in centimeters?" he fired a warning shot into the air.

"Five...Five..." the victim gasped for breath as she ran and calculated. "5,000..."

"5,000 what?" Reid slowed a little, tiring. "You forgot your units, Ma'am!"

"Centimeters..." the victim screamed and swerved.

"5,000 centimeters!" Reid sped up, her response giving him the energy to continue. "5,000 centimeters divided by 2.54 centimeters per inch!" he struggled for breath. "What does that come out to? What's 5,000 centimeters in inches?" he fired a second warning shot.

"I don't know!" the victim screamed. "Help! Help! Someone help me!" she shrieked in her annoyingly high-pitched voice.

"Stop screaming!" Reid yelled after her. "I don't like the sound of your screams! Please just talk normally, OK? Why can't you just talk normally? I don't like it when you scream! I can't stand your voice! It's so annoying! Stop screaming and give me an estimate! I'm waiting!" he fired a third warning shot.

"Two...Two..." the victim stumbled, steadied herself against a tree trunk, and took off again. "2,000...Inches..."

"Good! Close!" Reid steadied himself against the same tree trunk. "1,968.5 inches! 1,968.5 inches divided by 12 inches per foot! What does that come out to? What's 1,968.5 inches in feet?"

"I don't know!" the victim whimpered and cried. "Help! Help!" she could barely gasp out her desperate pleas.

"No estimates, please!" Reid could barely gasp out his bizarre requests. "Exact figures only, please! And don't forget your units, please! Come on, Ma'am! I haven't got all day, OK? I've got to go home and change and call the team and get to the airport before the storm rolls in! Otherwise, we won't be able to get out of town to solve the case! We've got to fly off before it starts snowing! You know what it's like when it snows here!"

"One...Fifty..." the victim tripped over a tree branch and tumbled head over feet into the clear area under a pine tree.

"Oh no, Ma'am, are you alright? Did you hurt anything? Here, let me help you!" Reid shortened his stride to pull up beside her.

"No! No! Get away from me! Get away!" the victim rolled away, scrambled up, and darted down a small muddy hill.

"But you haven't answered my question!" Reid lengthened his stride to catch up. "I'm still waiting!" he fired a fourth warning shot.

"I don't know!" the victim coughed and sputtered. "Please stop this! Please don't kill me! I didn't do anything to you! Why are you doing this? Please don't!" she tripped again, this time over a hole in the ground, tripping and falling and slipping and sliding into and through and down the squishy sludgy mud as he stopped to observe her unfortunate trajectory.

Even from 6 meters, or 20 feet, behind her, he heard a popping noise as she landed sideways with her full weight upon her ankle. Involuntarily, his own ankle twinged in sympathy. He shook his head, sighed, and picked his way down the hill towards her. From personal experience, he knew that it was no fun to sprain an ankle. In many ways, a sprain was worse than a break. A break would at least get her a cast that stabilized the joint and gained the sincere sympathy of others, such as him, who noticed it and wished to sign it. A sprain would only leave the feverish swollen joint flopping around at the end of her leg for the unsympathetic masses, including him, to step onto or bump into, without so much as an insincere apology. In the case of domestic ungulates such as woefully in/thoroughbred horses, an injured ankle was often a precursor to death, either a warm fuzzy humane death at the prick of a needle or an agonizing natural death without the soothing comforts of human intervention.

Reid knelt down beside the victim. She huddled in a pool of mud, clutching her injured ankle. She sobbed hysterically, her tears flowing down her ruddy cheeks and collecting at the bottom of her delicate chin before dripping down into her lap. He visualized each tear as a droplet of mineralized solution dripping down from the ceiling of a limestone cave to deposit itself onto the stalagmite rising up from the cavern floor. Her bangs were disheveled, and her braid was loose. Most of her hair was shiny and brown, but he noticed a few strands of gray within the soft wavy curls. He patted her on the cheeks, then around the shoulders, to comfort her. He made up his mind to put an end to her sufferings.

"50 meters is 164 feet," Reid gazed kindly into her eyes. "I'm not a very good shot," he aimed his gun at her forehead. "I don't think I can make it from that far, so I'm not even going to try it. How about we knock it down an order of magnitude for me? 5 meters. One, two, three, four, five," he counted out the distance in meters. "Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen," he counted out the distance in feet. "5 meters, 16 feet...I should be able to make it from that far. I think I can! I hope I can! Skill and will, skill and will, skill and will," he closed his eyes in concentration, shaking his head back and forth, mumbling to himself, and psyching himself up for the task at hand. "Thank you for everything, Ma'am," he stood up and backed away from the victim.

From the victim, Reid backed away the distance one meter at a time. At the terminus, he planted a tree branch in the mud. He jogged back and forth between the tree branch and the victim, checking and rechecking the distance between them. Seeing his distraction, the victim scrambled painfully to her feet, making a last ditch effort to escape. He ignored her. He took his position, set his shoulders, and aimed his gun with both hands. He reminded himself to follow through as Hotch would have reminded him had Hotch been here at this moment. She hobbled laboriously over the soggy leaves. He took a deep breath, drank in the scene, and committed the pretty picture to memory. She tripped and fell over a rock. He tipped the barrel downwards to compensate for her position upon the ground. Out of the corner of his left eye, he spotted movement. So did she, turning her head, screaming, and waving her arms at the source of the movement. He squeezed the trigger to shoot her in the head from 5 meters, or 16 feet, away. She crumpled to the ground out of the corner of his right eye as he whipped around to his left. A flash of movement greeted him from the far distance. He aimed and fired and hit the target. He did it again, felling a second flash of movement even farther away. A fourth squeeze of the trigger at the farthest target, and all was still within a circle of radius 50 meters, or 164 feet.

Reid holstered his gun and checked his watch. It was noon. This morning, he had killed a total of five people. Of the seventeen rounds in the magazine, he had fired nine. That left eight more for him to fire with the combined momentum of his skill and will.

* * *

The _Cannabis_ plants were gone. Try as he might, Reid could not find a single one. It was nearly three, the sky was darkening before the storm, and the marijuana patches were nowhere to be seen.

He stood in the middle of the trail near the northern boundary of Rock Creek Park, yawning and rubbing his eyes. This morning, he had gotten up much earlier than usual, so he was already sleepy in the middle of the afternoon. Not only was he sleepy, but he was also tired after spending the whole day walking and running through the woods. Not only was he tired, but he was also hungry. As a snack, chocolate was delicious, and so was jerky, and so was jerky-wrapped chocolate, but none of the sweet, savory, or savory-sweet treats were substitutes for a real meal. Still, they would have to do. He pulled the brim of his baseball cap over his eyes and fumbled with a button on one of the lower pockets of his pants. From his left, the bike hit him before he could reach in to retrieve any of chocolatey goodies within.

"Augh!" Reid heard himself yell out loud as a large heavy mass crashed into him, sent him flying, landed on top of him, rolled off his face with a kick, and popped up to curse at him.

"What the fuck is your problem?" the angry young man screamed down at his victim upon the ground. "What the fuck are you doing in the middle of the trail? You fucking ruined my bike, you asshole! It's all fucked up now! You'd better fucking pay for it, you son of a bitch! Fuck!"

He straightened, brushed the leaves off his windbreaker, and flung his bike helmet onto the ground. He spit into the bushes and kicked the dirt as his victim ignored him.

Reid ignored the insults. He sat upon the cold hard gravel of the hiking/biking trail, feeling the sharp little pieces embedded in his hands and face and addressing his most urgent problem. His most urgent problem was not the sharp little pieces of gravel. His most urgent problem was his ankle. He clutched it, wincing in pain and rocking back and forth as he waited for the horrible, yet familiar, sensations to subside. When he recovered enough to look up but not to move, the victim was still verbally abusing him.

"Are you a fucking retard or something?" the victim yelled down at him. "What are you, a fucking deaf-mute? Are you fucking blind? Fucking standing in the middle of the trail waiting for someone to run into you so you can fuck up their bike! Do you know how much I paid for that thing? Do you know how many hours I've trained to ride that thing? I'm going to have to get it fixed now! I haven't got time to get it fixed! I've got a race in South America next fucking weekend, and I haven't got a fucking bike to ride! All thanks to you, you fuckhead! What the fuck are you doing just sitting there? Pretending to be hurt so I'm going to have to pay your fucking medical bills? Hell no, asshole! Fuck you!"

"Roid Rage," Reid muttered under his breath.

"What the fuck was that?" the victim glared menacingly down at him. "What the fuck did you just say about me?"

"Roid Rage," Reid spoke louder, looking up but averting his eyes from the victim as he dialed himself into Recitation Mode. "A side effect of the consumption of anabolic steroids for athletic gain. Named after the common phenomenon of Road Rage. In my opinion, you're currently suffering from both," he looked the victim in the eye.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" the victim lurched forwards to grab him by the collar. "Have you got a deathwish or something? Want me to fuck you up out here? Fuck you up and dump you in the bushes for your Mommy to find? Why don't you keep talking? Yeah, keep talking! Keep mouthing off, you son of a b..." he stopped in mid-threat, sucking in a sharp breath at the muzzle of the suppressor shoved up against his large red beak-like nose.

"Do not call my mother a bitch," Reid ordered softly. "You can call me whatever you want, but do not call my mother a bitch."

"Shit, Man, I'm sorry, I was just kidding before," the victim shifted his tone and put up his hands. "Look, I'm really sorry, OK? I didn't mean anything I said before...Really I didn't. Um, are you OK? Hey, Man, sorry about your ankle! I can, uh, I can pay your medical bills for you...if, if, if you want. Yeah, no problem, I can help..."

"No, thank you," Reid rejected the offer. "I've got medical insurance. You don't have to worry about it."

"Good, Man, thanks," the victim backed away, seeking to put as much distance as possible between himself and the gun. "Listen, I'm really sorry about before, OK? You're right about the Roid Rage. You're totally right about that. Yeah, I've been on the juice before, but I quit, alright? So don't tell anyone, OK? Look, I'm just going to get my bike and, and, and get out of here, OK? Hey, I can ride out to the road and get some help for you. I won't tell anyone anything. I won't mention the gun or anything. I promise!"

"No, thank you," Reid shook his head politely. "I won't be needing any help for this ankle, thanks. It's not that bad. It doesn't even hurt that much anymore. Especially not after I do this," he shot the victim in the leg, straight through the femur near the top of the thigh.

With a strangled howl, the victim dropped to the ground, grabbing his leg and rolling around in an unattractive reptilian manner, like a turtle flipped onto its shell. Reid pushed himself up to a standing position. He tested his ankle. It flopped around at the end of his leg, barely supporting his weight as he stepped forwards to loom over the victim. He tested it some more, bending his foot upwards, downwards, and sideways. Each time he moved it, a sharp pain shot through the bones on the right side of his right foot. The pain was intense and frightening, so he made up for it by shooting the victim in the other leg, straight through the knee. He knew what that felt like. Very briefly, he sympathized with the victim. Then, he tested his ankle again. At this stage of the injury, it was hard to tell whether the ankle was sprained or broken. Every movement felt equally bad, all the nerves pulsing and muscles spazzing and bones grinding every time he put his weight down. It hurt so much that he had to shoot the victim again. This time, he shot the victim twice, once through the femur above the shattered knee and once through the knee below the shattered femur. He watched the victim writhe and thrash and flail in a bubbling mudpot of gravelly blood. He listened to and ignored the screams, so close yet so far away. He focused his attention upon the gun. Each shot of the gun was like a shot of the drug, drowning out the nerves and muscles and bones and washing away the bad feelings to push in the good. In a warm fuzzy haze, he shot the victim twice more, once in the chest to kill him and once in the head to kill him again. He used up six rounds of ammunition on the angry young man. With his last two rounds, he shot an elderly couple walking through the woods in the wrong place at the wrong time. He shot the man in the chest, a small target from 10 meters, or 33 feet, away, and the woman in the head, an even smaller target from the same distance out. Afterwards, his ankle still hurt, but not nearly as much as before.

By the time he reached the bus stop, it was dark, cold, and sprinkling. It had taken him an hour and a half to slog through the woods on his bad ankle. At this point, he was pretty sure that his ankle was sprained rather than broken. He didn't think that he could have made it through the woods on a broken ankle. With a broken ankle, he would have had to stop and call someone, probably Hotch, Morgan, or 911, to find him, pick him up, and take him to the emergency room. In that scenario, questions would have been asked and answers concocted. He would have lied that he had been walking through the woods to get some exercise and also to search for the famous turtles that populated the park. He would have hidden the murder weapon under his clothing, refusing to unzip and remove his coat even when the doctor came in to treat him. "But, Doctor, why do I have to take off my coat? It's my ankle that's the problem!" The doctor, being a man or woman of reason, would have agreed with him. "It's fine, Dr. Reid, you don't have to take off your coat. Just sit back, relax, and let me set your ankle, alright?" With a charming smile to distract him, the doctor would have yanked his ankle back into place, crunching the bones against each other, tearing the muscles into shreds, and inflaming the nerves into agonizing revolt. "Owwwwwww! Fuuuuuuuck! You bitch or son of a bitch!" With an angry snort to announce his displeasure, he would have shot and killed the doctor. Fortunately, his ankle was sprained rather than broken.

On 16th Street, Reid flagged down a southbound bus to drive him to the parking lot of a shopping center near the zoo. That had been the final adjustment to his plan. This morning, while driving around some of the affluent neighborhoods surrounding the park, he had realized just how extremely out of place his car had looked amongst the shiny vans and SUVs parked on the curbs and driveways. That was why he had parked his car at the shopping center instead, where it had fit in perfectly with the other peeling pieces of junk in front of the 99-Cent Store. At the store, he purchased an adhesive wrap for his ankle. At the McDonald's next door, he ordered three Big Macs and a large Coke. He scowled at the cashier when she asked him if he wanted to super-size his drink. She scowled back and probably spit in his burgers when he wasn't looking. He didn't care if she did. He ate one of the Big Macs in his car in the parking lot and one on his couch in the living room. The second one he ate in his car on the drive home, biting and chewing and swerving and straying and stopping and starting, all fitfully, as he operated the gas and brake pedals with his injured right foot. The whole time, he grinned and giggled and felt freer and happier than he had felt since the morning of the day on which he had met Jason Gideon, when he had set fire to and blown up Millikan Pond for the very last time.

Naturally, the water had turned into steam.

"Potassium! Water! Hydrogen! Oxygen! _Ignition_ aaaaaaand..._Liftoff_ of the Space Shuttle Spender on its mission to..."

"Stop it, Spencer! You're a grown-up now. You can't do stuff like that anymore."

"I know, Reid, I know. But what am I supposed to do instead?"

"Don't worry, Kid, your big brother's got it all covered. Why don't you just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride?"

* * *

Road Rage, Code Rage, Roid Rage. What other kinds of Rage are there? REID RAGE! Ahahahahahaha! I am going to Hell for writing this chapter. Not because I wrote it, but because I laughed while writing it.

Moar: Reid is ready and refreshed for the next case.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

To apologize or not to apologize? That was the question to be agonized over.

On the BAU jet, Reid snuck a peek at Emily sitting across the aisle from him. She sat with her head against a window, her eyes closed, her hands on her lap, breathing slowly, her breath fogging up the plexiglas, apparently asleep. He wondered whether she was actually asleep. All the physical evidence pointed to her being actually asleep. Her eyes were closed, and her eyelids were completely relaxed in a manner that was distinct from the way in which she would have scrunched them shut had she been awake and resting her eyes. Her arms lay in front of her with her hands on her lap, having crashed down from their earlier position folded across her chest. Both her arms and hands were completely relaxed, their lack of tightness coinciding with the looseness of her eyelids, together displaying the low muscle tone associated with sleep. She was breathing slowly a rate of 14 breaths per minute. That was on the low end of the range for waking adults, with respiratory rates between 14 and 18 breaths per minute, but in the middle of the range for sleeping adults, with respiratory rates between 12 and 16 breaths per minute. The ranges were averages for the entire human population. Without her personal waking and sleeping respiratory rates as controls, her current respiratory rate was inconclusive as an indicator of sleep or wakefulness. He wished that her eyes were moving rapidly within her eyelids, so he knew for sure that she was experiencing REM sleep and therefore sleep in general. If she were asleep, then what was she dreaming? If she were awake, then what was she thinking? In either case, what was she feeling? He wished to know. He wished to know for sure.

What was she feeling? Was she feeling angry? Was she feeling angry with him? Was she angry with him for taking up the couch that she had wanted to sit on? Three hours earlier, when the BAU had trudged grudgingly onto the jet on the evening of an interrupted Sunday, Emily had wanted to sit on the couch, but Reid hadn't moved to let her. Three hours later, when the BAU jet was still stranded on the runway during a raging snowstorm, Reid didn't know whether Emily was angry with him for taking up the couch. All the physical evidence that he could discern pointed to her not being angry with him, but in the case of conscious feelings, unlike in the case of unconscious states of mind and body, physical evidence was easily missed or misinterpreted. As a profiler, Reid knew that anger came in multiple forms that were classified into two categories: passive and aggressive. Physical evidence was useful for recognizing aggressive anger, but even so, not all forms of it. Passive anger was easy to miss or misinterpret based on physical evidence alone. Aggressive anger was an acute illness that flared up and burned itself out within minutes. Passive anger was a chronic illness that persisted past or with the stressor to mutate itself into a form that was no longer recognizable as anger at all. Reid wondered whether Emily was angry with him. He wished to know for sure. He wished that she would tell him. Then, he would know for sure.

If she were angry with him, then what should he do? Should he get up, step across the aisle, and apologize for his inconsiderate behavior? Should he do it now? Should he risk waking her up to do so? Should he do it later? Should he wait until she was definitely rather than possibly awake to apologize for his inconsiderate behavior? Was it better to apologize now or later? What would she think and feel about him if he apologized now, possibly waking her up to do so, as if he were desperately seeking her approval? What would she think and feel about him if he apologized later, waiting until she had possibly forgotten the offense, as if he were obsessively analyzing it and desperately seeking her approval? Should he apologize at all? Had he offended her enough to apologize? Did he think that he had? Did she think that he had? Was she expecting an apology from him? What would she think and feel about him if she were expecting an apology that he didn't offer? What would she think and feel about him if she weren't expecting an apology that he offered?

He didn't know. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to behave, not even around the colleagues with whom he had worked for the past six years. He knew them, but he didn't know how to behave around them. He could profile them, analyzing and systematizing their psychologies and behaviors based on all the facts that he knew about them, but he didn't know who they were, because they didn't tell him who they were. They didn't say what they meant. They didn't tell him what they thought and felt. They didn't tell him what they thought and felt about him. They didn't tell him how to behave around them. As a profiler successfully profiling people, he knew them. As a person unsuccessfully connecting with people, he didn't know who they were. As a profiler successfully profiling people, they knew him. As a person unsuccessfully connecting with people, they didn't know who he was. They didn't know who he was, because he couldn't tell them who he was. Because they didn't say what they meant, he couldn't say what he meant. Morgan would give him "The Look" and laugh. What did the laugh mean? What was Morgan thinking and feeling as he laughed? What was Morgan thinking and feeling about him? He suspected that Morgan disliked him. Because they didn't tell him what they thought and felt, he couldn't tell them what he thought and felt. Rossi would give him "The Look" and snark. What did the snark mean? What was Rossi thinking and feeling as he snarked? What was Rossi thinking and feeling about him? He suspected that Rossi disliked him. Because they didn't tell him what they thought and felt about him, he couldn't tell them what he thought and felt about them. JJ would give him "The Look" and roll her eyes. What did the eye roll mean? What was JJ thinking and feeling as she rolled her eyes? What was JJ thinking and feeling about him? He suspected that JJ disliked him. Because they didn't tell him how to behave around them, he couldn't tell them how to behave around him. Emily would give him "The Look" and shake her head. What did the head shake mean? What was Emily thinking and feeling as she shook her head? What was Emily thinking and feeling about him? He suspected that Emily disliked him. He didn't know for sure, because they didn't tell him. For sure, he knew what "The Look" meant. "The Look" meant, "Shut up and go away, we don't want to know who you are, you annoying whiny self-absorbed know-it-all arrogant obnoxious smartass blowhard!" Most of the time, he shut up. He wished to go away as well, but most of the time, such as now, he had nowhere to go.

Occasionally, he knew how to behave around them. Whenever and wherever that happened, he behaved that way around them. The hard part was figuring it out, so at any given moment, he devoted most of his mental faculties to it. They were the large majority, and he was the small minority, so it was his duty to fit in amongst them, no matter how mentally and physically exhausted it made him and no matter how bad and wrong and false and not himself he felt during it. They expected him to behave a certain way around them, but he didn't expect them to behave a certain way around him. They were the large majority, and he was the small minority, so it was not his right to expect it. He didn't expect it, but he wished it. He wished them to behave a certain way around him. Around him, he wished them to say what they meant, to tell him what they thought and felt, to tell him what they thought and felt about him, to tell him how to behave around them, to respond when he said what he meant, to respond when he told them what he thought and felt, to respond when he told them what he thought and felt about them, to respond when he told them how to behave around him. This way, he would know who they were, and they would know who he was, all as people rather than profilers. It was his dearest wish, but it was only a wish. Because they didn't behave how he wished them to behave around him, he didn't know who they were, they didn't know who he was, and they didn't know that he didn't know how they expected him to behave around them.

How did they expect him to behave around them? They didn't tell him, so he didn't know for sure. When and where did they expect him to speak up or shut up? When and where did they expect him to play smart or dumb? When and where did they expect him to lead or follow? When and where did they expect him to apologize or not? They didn't tell him, so he didn't know for sure. If he knew for sure, then he would do whatever they expected, whenever and wherever they expected it. All they had to do was to tell him. Whatever they told him to do, he would do it. Whenever and wherever they told him to do it, he would do it then and there. If Emily told him to apologize, then he would do it. If Emily told him to apologize now, on the BAU jet, then he would do it now, on the BAU jet. If Emily told him to apologize later, at the hotel, then he would do it later, at the hotel. All she had to do was to tell him. Why didn't she tell him? Why didn't they tell him? They didn't tell him, because they expected him to know. They expected him to know how to behave around them, but he didn't know how to behave around them. He didn't know, because they didn't tell him. They knew how to behave around each other, and they knew each other, because they were like each other. He didn't know how to behave around them, and he didn't know who they were, and they didn't know who he was, because he wasn't like them. He was Him. They were Others. He was an Other. They were Them.

His dilemma was best captured not in the works of Dr. Hans Asperger, who had understood it from the outside in, but in the words of Dr. Albert Einstein, who had understood it from the inside out, "The question that sometimes drives me hazy, 'Am I or the Others crazy?'"

Silently, Reid flipped over onto his right side to face the back of the couch.

"Owwwwwww!" silently.

Silently, Reid slammed the side of his wrong foot against the surface of the couch.

While agonizing over whether or not to apologize for taking up the couch, he had forgotten why he was taking up the couch in the first place. He was taking up the couch due to his injured ankle. Due to his injured ankle, he was sprawling out with his foot up on the couch, so the feverish reddish-black already-swollen and ever-swelling joint could break away from the torments of gravity, if only for the hour that it should have taken to fly down to Raleigh. That was why he was taking up the couch. That was why he hadn't moved to let Emily sit on the couch.

Not that she had known, and not that he had told her. If Emily had known, then Hotch would have known, and if Hotch had known, then he wouldn't have been here at all, taking up the couch and agonizing over whether or not to apologize for taking up the couch. Hotch would have thrown him off the jet, asking him what was he thinking, going on a case with a sprained and possibly broken ankle for which he hadn't sought medical attention. Hotch would have glared at him from the doorway, asking him what was he thinking, driving to the airport with the same injured ankle. Hotch would have called Anderson to pick him up like Anderson was his Mommy, told Anderson to drive him to the emergency room like Anderson was his Mommy, ordered Anderson to take him home afterwards like Anderson was his Mommy. Hotch would have told him what to do, but he wouldn't have wished to do it, so he hadn't told anyone, neither Emily or Hotch.

Still, Reid felt good that Hotch would have told him what to do. Hotch wasn't like him, but Hotch often told him what to do, so he liked Hotch a lot.

For the next few days or however long it would take to solve the case, he would have to fake it, masking his limp under a springy bouncy gait, a lopsided lurching stride, and the kind of tiptoeing skittering tread that was best described as a "little girl run" - anything to avoid setting his heel down and transferring his weight to the back of his foot. Combined with his customary spastic fidgeting and abominable posture, the symptoms of his subversion would lie only slightly outside his normal spectrum of physical mannerisms. Throughout the fakery, he hoped that none of his colleagues would do to him what Emily had done earlier, nudging him in the foot with her knee in an apparently good-natured manner that he hoped had actually been good-natured, and kicking his nerves, muscles, and bones into a frantic quest not to blast into smithereens as the pain receptors of his brain embarked upon the same quest not to do the same thing, not to themselves, which would have been welcome, but to their host, which would have been very unwelcome indeed.

Still, Reid felt bad about taking up the couch that Emily had wanted to sit on. Should he apologize? He didn't know for sure, because she hadn't told him. She hadn't told him what to do. Emily wasn't like him, and Emily rarely told him what to do, so he didn't like Emily quite as much as he liked Hotch.

If she were like him, then the question would never have come up to be agonized over. Casual apologies and the offering and non-offering of such were some of the social complications that existed for the two-fold benefit of torturing Him and People Like Him and doing whatever they did for Others that made Others so fond of them. When he was truly sorry, he wouldn't have wished to agonize over whether or not to apologize. When he was truly sorry, he would have wished to say that he was truly sorry, in a truly sorry manner that would have offered another a genuine expression of his genuine self, to have and to hold, whether or not they had ever seen or would ever see each other again. Except that he could never have offered such an expression to an Other, because such an expression would never have been recognized, by an Other, as either an apology or a genuine expression of his genuine self. He would have done it all wrong, and the scalars that multiplied the insufferability and/or offense vectors would have skyrocketed to unbelievable heights for the Other. Afterwards, they wouldn't have been able to speak to each other for weeks, months, or years. They wouldn't have been able to work together. They wouldn't have been able to play together. They wouldn't have been able to have a meaningful relationship with each other. Amongst Others, he was stuck, always wondering what he should have done, should be doing, and should do around them, always wondering how to behave around them and when and where to behave that way around them, always wishing to give of his genuine self and receive of their genuine selves, but never giving or receiving any genuine expression of any genuine self, because he and/or they couldn't and/or wouldn't. In the way that he wished, he found it impossible to connect with them, so he found it possible to kill them. He never worried about accidentally killing someone like him, because People Like Him he could recognize from the opposite side of a crowded lecture hall without so much as the exchange of a confident (nervous) smile, a friendly (awkward) wave, or a meaningless (meaningful) pleasantry (factoid).

Around People Like Him, Reid behaved how he wished them to behave around him. Around People Like Him, he felt the urge to meet and greet and engage in twelve-hour-long conversations on topics ranging from the evolutionary advantages of life cycles with prime-numbered periodicities for 13- and 17-year cicadas to the mechanism by which the Higgs field conferred mass to all elementary particles except the photon and gluon to the application of Grubbs' Catalyst for sealing microcracks on spaceship hulls through ring opening metathesis polymerization (ROMP) of dicyclopentadiene to the allegorical interpretations of pagan mythologies in the context of the Christian worldview in medieval literature to the paternalistic manipulations of humaniform robots in the development of galaxy-wide human societies in the "Empire", "Robot", and "Foundation" series. Or they could mix and match intellectual topics with the special interests that they shared - their ant farms, their LEGO collections, their comic books. Afterwards, they could get to know each other and make friends with each other and go out to dinner together and go see a movie together and drive around town together and set stuff on fire together and blow stuff up together and work together and play together and have meaningful relationships with each other. In time, maybe after a few minutes, they could offer each other some genuine expressions of their genuine selves, maybe some tidbits about how awkward and bumbling and clumsy and discombobulated they felt amongst Others and what it would be like to live in a utopia in which people said what they meant, told each other what they thought and felt, told each other what they thought and felt about each other, and didn't tell each other how to behave around each other, because it didn't matter as long as intent was good and motive absent, which were the assumptions that formed the foundation for that particular world. Then, after they had parted ways, they wouldn't have to hear from each other for a few weeks or months. Perhaps they would never hear from each other again. After a few weeks or months, if and when they had met up by appointment only, they would do the same things that they had done before, as if only a few days had passed. Afterwards and in time, then and after a few weeks or months, all this could occur. It could, or it could not. Whichever. Either way, Reid wouldn't have tortured himself by pre-guessing and guessing and post-guessing his way through all his personal and professional interactions. They would have felt good and right and true, he would have felt good and right and true and himself during them, and a genuine sense of belonging would have risen up to embrace him with its warmth and comfort. It would have been a thrilling high.

Around Others, Reid behaved in an awkward bumbling clumsy discombobulated manner in which he tortured himself by pre-guessing and guessing and post-guessing his way through all his personal and professional interactions. Around Others, he felt the urge to kill. It was a defense mechanism of small minority versus large majority to overcome the overwhelming oppression that he had suffered all his life in a dystopian society in which he had been designated an alien, odd and quirky and eccentric and whatever, to be disliked and ignored and patronized and whatevered whenevered wherevered, even though the world of the dystopia had been just as much his birthright as it had been theirs. Reid was a football fan. In football, defense won championships, but also in football, the best defense was a good offense.

On Monday morning, it was midnight. Outside, it was snowing. It was snowing hard, with thunder and lightning, and the BAU jet was stranded on the tarmac. Inside, everyone was tired and sleepy, and most everyone appeared to be asleep. The only person who was awake was Dr. Spencer Reid, who felt bad about and was truly sorry for taking up the couch and one but not the other for shooting and killing eight people who weren't like him on the Sunday that had, just now, passed silently away.

Reid felt bad about shooting and killing the large formidable man in the Mets baseball cap. He had wished to make a genuine connection with the man, but the man hadn't moved to let him.

First, he had worked up the courage to approach the man. That hadn't been easy for him, and he would never have done it if he hadn't wished to shoot and kill the man so so so very very very much. He had said "Hi", and the man had said "Hey". The man had responded favorably to him, probably because he had looked normal and blended in as an outdoorsy "Weekend Warrior" type hiking through the woods on a gray cloudy Sunday that had held the promise of snow. Something about the man had encouraged him to continue. The man had been wearing a baseball cap with the brim pulled tightly over his eyes just as he had worn his own baseball cap with the brim pulled tightly over his own eyes. The baseball cap had encouraged him to continue, so he had continued.

Second, he had made small talk with the man, asking him if he had thought that it was going to snow that day. That had also been difficult for him, but he had been encouraged when the man had responded favorably again, sharing something about himself, that he had been getting his jog in before the shit hit the fan. At first, he hadn't understood what the man had meant. What shit? What fan? Then, he had recalled the small talk and realized that the man had been referring to the abject incompetence with which the residents and municipality of DC handled each and every sprinkling of snow. He had gotten it! Not only had he gotten it, but he had also responded! In contempt, he had snickered at all the suckers who suddenly lost the ability to drive as soon as the white stuff started falling out of the sky. He had responded appropriately! He had responded appropriately, because he had recalled that in Southern California, where he had learned to drive, all the suckers also suddenly lost the ability to drive as soon as the wet stuff started falling out of the sky. Here or there, white stuff or wet stuff, he had always admitted that he was one of the suckers who suddenly lost the ability to drive as soon as anything started falling out of the sky, not that he drove all that well even when nothing was falling out of the sky. The successful interaction had been a thrilling high, so much so that he had soared into the bombarding sky only to fall back into his normal spectrum of social behaviors, sharing something about himself and the turtles that had been made up to be played out in one of the alternate realities in which he was not himself.

Often, Reid played out alternate realities in his mind. In them, he made friends with all kinds of people, all wishing to have meaningful relationships with him as he did with them, and all knowing how they all thought and felt about each other without having to wonder about or guess about or ask or tell each other. In alternate realities, he felt so good and right and true and not himself that the world of the dystopia appeared to be the world of the utopia. In this particular reality, after he had lied about himself and the turtles, the man had responded to him, so he had felt almost as good and right and true and not himself as he had in those alternate realities in which he didn't wonder if anyone would respond to him.

The man had responded to him! The man had known about the turtles! The man had asked about the turtles! The man had asked about him! The man had wanted to know about him!

!

Quickly, he had concocted another series of lies about himself and the turtles. He had wished to play out this particular reality, so he had made it up on the fly. Desperately, he had wished to make it up and play it out with the man. He had wished that it would end well, with a genuine connection with the man, who was someone, anyone, he didn't care who, for him to connect with, even though he had long ago given up wishing to connect with anyone, Others or People Like Him, and now left it all up to chance, not choice, as he had explained to the last one with whom he had made a genuine connection. This he had wished so very much that he had almost but not quite forgotten that he had also wished to shoot and kill the man so so so very very very much. In the end, the man had fulfilled his wish for him. Just when the interaction had appeared to sweeten, it had actually soured.

While clambering down the embankment, the man had remarked that the activity, his purported special interest that purportedly took up all his spare time, had sounded like fun. That was when the question had come up to be agonized over. Had the man really meant that his purported special interest had sounded like fun? Or had the man only said and not meant that his purported special interest had sounded like fun? He didn't know! He couldn't tell! Maybe the man had meant it. Maybe the man hadn't meant it. He didn't know! He couldn't tell! He had been burned so many times beforrrrrrre! So many times before, he had been burrrrrrrned! In his imagination, he had conjured up a jug of water to put out the fire. The water had been muddy, so he had taken it upon himself to stir it clean.

He had wished to know for sure, so he had asked the man. He had asked the man if he had wanted to join in his purported special interest. He had claimed that his purported special interest was helpful for relaxing on the weekends and also for blowing off steam from work. He had waited for the man to answer his question. The man hadn't answered his question. The man hadn't answered that yes, he would like to join in his purported special interest, or no, he wouldn't like to join in his purported special interest. The man had only raised his eyebrows to repeat his words back to him in the form of a question. Why hadn't the man answered the question with an answer? Why had the man answered the question with a question? What had the man meant by what he had said? Had the man really meant that his purported special interest had sounded like fun? Or had the man only said and not meant that his purported special interest had sounded like fun? Had the man wanted to join in? Had the man not wanted to join in? He hadn't known for sure, because the man hadn't told him. What he had known for sure was that the red-tipped dial on the Kill-O-Meter had jumped up a big notch. After that, the only thing that had remained to be done was the playing out of the alternate reality in which he was an odd quirky eccentric young man who just happened, in all realities, to carry around a murder weapon in the depths of his winter coat.

Casually, he had made a comment about the shooting range. Earnestly, he had bent over to look for the turtle. He had spoken to the elusive turtle just as he would speak to the imaginary turtle and just as he would have spoken to the real turtle had she been there and he with her. He could speak to turtles, real or imaginary, because he had always enjoyed a special rapport with children and animals. It was called "The Reid Effect". Children and animals flocked to him, and he felt warm and comfortable around them. Children let him pick them up and carry them off, even though he was a complete stranger to them. Animals approached him and barked out their greetings, even though they could have approached and greeted someone else instead. Amongst his colleagues, Hotch was the one who had initially recognized the unusual phenomenon. Reid liked Hotch a lot.

Eventually, after a few minutes of alternately conversing with the man and the turtle, the man had wanted to leave. That was the evidence that he hadn't made a genuine connection with him. The realization had made him anxious, nervous, scared, angry. It had stressed him out. It had fried his brain. His brain had melted down. He had choked. In the midst of the meltdown, he had spewed out random but accurate factoids about the turtles and the poplars in the park. He had spewed out random and inaccurate factoids about the imaginary turtle and her imaginary streaks. He had accosted the man with a rock that had turned into a turtle. In response, the man had patronized him. The man hadn't said what he had meant. The man hadn't told him what he had thought and felt. The man hadn't told him what he had thought and felt about him. The man hadn't told him how to behave around him. The man had patronized and therefore rejected him over and over and over again and again and again. "Yeah, sure, you bet. Yeah, sure, you bet. Yeah, sure, you bet." He had felt so bad and wrong and false and himself. He had felt so awkward bumbling clumsy discombobulated! Defective! Defective! Defective! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! The dial on the Kill-O-Meter had jumped up another big notch, past the blue line that said and meant "Kill". At "Kill", he had felt an overwhelming urge to shoot and kill the man just to get rid of him, so he could reset his brain in peace, quiet, and solitude. That was when the turtle had turned back into the rock. That was when he had drawn the murder weapon and aimed it at the man.

Faced with the murder weapon, the man had assigned him motives where he had none. He didn't like it when people assigned him motives where he had none, so he had taken it upon himself to right the wrong. He had explained that no, he wasn't a mugger, and yes, he was here to blow off some steam from work. He had explained how he had blown off steam then and there, back when and where he had friends like him to blow off steam with, and how he blew off steam here and now, where and when he had friends not like him, so he had to blow off steam all by himself. He had told the man how to behave around him. He had told the man what to do. The man hadn't done it, so he had shot and killed the man who wasn't like him.

For shooting and killing the large formidable man in the Mets baseball cap, Reid felt bad. The baseball cap had not been much protection after all. The bullet had pierced the swirly orange logo. The image bothered him as he viewed it in his mind. The thought bothered him as he thought it in his mind. The feeling bothered him as he felt it in his mind.

After the feeling of power came the feeling of remorse. Reid felt remorse for shooting and killing the man. In the rainbow, remorse was indigo, the color on the violet side of blue and the red side of violet, the color that may or may not be discernible to the human eye. In the rainbow, the only reason "ROY G. BIV" was not "ROY G. BV" was because Sir Isaac Newton had been obsessed with the number seven. The seven colors of the rainbow, the seven musical notes, the seven celestial objects, the seven days of the week - all special interests of Sir Isaac Newton. Without indigo, seven would have been six, and six would have been unacceptable to the superstitious old alchemist who had analyzed the Bible thoroughly enough to have prophesied, and had yet to be proven wrong, that the world would end no earlier than the year 2060.

With the short slender woman with the bangs and the braid, Reid had played out the alternate reality in which he was a shy awkward young man seeking to find a girlfriend amongst the woman's daughters, nieces, friends, or whoevers, and who just happened, in all realities, to carry around a murder weapon in the depths of his winter coat. In this particular reality, he had faked a fake voice, just like the fake voices that female telemarketers faked on the phone to trick elderly victims into purchasing their useless valueless products and services. With the woman, as with the man, the same sequence of events had occurred. He had worked up the courage to approach, very quickly this time. She had responded favorably. He had continued, st-st-stutter-ter-tering and st-st-stammer-mer-mering slightly. She had responded favorably again, sharing something about herself and her husband and assigning him motives where he had none. She had been wrong, so he had taken it upon himself to right the wrong. As usual, he had done it all wrong, but in the process, he had come up with a great idea for a potential special interest that he now felt an increasingly overwhelming urge to pursue. He had shared his idea. She had wanted to leave. That was the evidence that he hadn't made a genuine connection with her. The realization had made him anxious, nervous, scared, angry. It had stressed him out. It had fried his brain. His brain had melted down. He had snapped. In the midst of the meltdown, he had tortured the woman - forcing her up the embankment, chasing her through the woods, yelling and screaming at her, firing warning shots at her - before he had reset his brain enough to get rid of her and put an end to her sufferings. In one big leap, the dial on the Kill-O-Meter had jumped up past the blue line. By that time, he had already shot and killed the man who wasn't like him, so he hadn't even needed the Kill-O-Meter to tell him to shoot and kill the woman who wasn't like him.

As he had told the woman, the experience had been fun. He had felt good and right and true and not himself during it, and the interaction had felt good and right and true. The woman had responded to his requests in a straightforward manner and made her own requests in an equally straightforward manner. The woman had told him how she expected him to behave around her and behaved how he wished her to behave around him. It had been a genuine stress-free interaction devoid of torturous pre-guessing, guessing, and post-guessing, and he had loved every second of it just as much as he had always loved a thrilling high. In the warm fuzzy haze that had left him lucid enough to measure out the 5 meters, or 16 feet, between them, he had shot and killed the woman who wasn't like him. In the wake of the kill, the haze had dropped to the ground like feathers and hammers on the Moon, leaving behind the fresh cold air composing the gray cloudy sky. Breathing in the fresh cold air, he had gained the skill to go along with the will to shoot and kill the three flashes of movement composing the group of people, two men and one woman, who had been hiking through the woods together within a circle of radius 50 meters, or 164 feet, around him. One look at the bodies had told him that they weren't like him, so he had moved on in search of marijuana patches near the northern boundary of Rock Creek Park.

Near the northern boundary of Rock Creek Park, he hadn't found the marijuana patches. Instead, the angry young man had found him and infiltrated his utopia. The angry young man had meant what he had said. The angry young man had told him what he had thought and felt. The angry young man had told him what he had thought and felt about him. The angry young man had told him how to behave around him. Reid had liked the angry young man, but not nearly as much as he liked Emily or Hotch, neither of whom cursed at him or called him names, even when they could and/or should have.

Unfortunately for the angry young man, Reid was also an angry young man. By that time, he had already shot and killed the three men who weren't like him and the two women who weren't like him, so the Kill-O-Meter, unneeded and unheeded, had soared up to mellow out in the big marijuana patch in the sky. In the fresh cold air followed by the warm fuzzy haze, he had shot and killed the angry young man who wasn't like him.

In one way, however, the angry young man had been just like him. Like him, the angry young man had displayed aggressive anger, the kind that had flared up and burned itself out as soon as it had found itself on the wrong end of the murder weapon. Unlike him, Reid had displayed passive anger, the kind that had persisted past or with the stressor to mutate itself into a form that was no longer recognizable as anger at all, unless one of its aggressive meltdowns flared up and burned itself out within minutes on the other end of the murder weapon. As for the stressor itself, if a lifetime of overwhelmingly oppressive captivity in a dystopian society in which he constantly devoted 99% of his amazing mental faculties to faking his way through all his personal and professional interactions to fit in amongst the humans only to end up as an odd/quirky/eccentric/whatever alien to be disliked/ignored/patronized/whatevered whenevered wherevered weren't enough to drive him crazy, then it had been truly Him and not the Others who had been truly crazy in the first place.

Reid was tired of being crazy. From it, he was mentally and physically exhausted. During it, he felt bad and wrong and false and not himself. Reid was tired of faking it.

On his Sunday walk in the park, he had faked it. He had faked it all, both his interactions with his victims and the intent behind them. In this particular world, intent had been bad and motive present. At no time had he wished to make a genuine connection with anyone. At all times had he wished to shoot and kill someone, anyone, he didn't care who, as long as the shooting and killing of them made him feel good and right and true and himself again. All he had wished to do was to blow off some steam. He had done it. He had blown off steam, specifically from work and generally from life. In the process, he had faked it, and to his surprise, he had actually loved faking it.

He had loved faking it! What did that mean? It meant what it said! But it couldn't be! He hated faking it! Could it be? It could! How could it be? Because he had shot and killed and gotten rid of them!

Having wished to shoot and kill them, and having shot and killed and gotten rid of them, Reid had reset his brain to find it ready and refreshed for a new person, a new interaction, a new day, a new case, a new hack at life. That was why he had been able to approach the man, quite easily. That was why he had been able to approach the woman, even easier. With the angry young man, it had been easiest of all. The angry young man had been the one who had approached Him in the middle of the hiking/biking trail. Fake! Fake! Fake! He had been the angry young man who had approached the Other in the middle of the hiking/biking trail. Fake! Fake! Fake!

Previously, Reid had hated faking it. Whenever and wherever he had faked it, all his interactions had felt bad and wrong and false, and he had felt bad and wrong and false and not himself during them. The older he had become, the better he had gotten at faking it and the worse he had wished not to fake it. He had wished to say what he had meant. He had wished to tell people what he had thought and felt. He had wished to tell people what he had thought and felt about them. He had wished to tell people how to behave around him. Now, he had. Now, he had fulfilled his wish for himself. For Him, his interactions had turned from bad and wrong and false to good and right and true. He had felt good and right and true and himself during them. For Them, the opposite had occurred. They had felt as he had previously felt. The world of His dystopia and Their utopia had turned into the world of His utopia and Their dystopia. It had been just as much his birthright as it had been theirs. Afterwards, something, anything, he didn't care what, had risen up to embrace him with its warmth and comfort and melted away all his anger in all its forms and categories, transporting him to the world of His utopia in which he said what he meant, told people what he thought and felt, told people what he thought and felt about them, told people how to behave around him, behaved how he wished them to behave around him, behaved how he wished to behave, and got rid of them when they melted down in the world of Their dystopia. It had been a thrilling high!

On the BAU jet, Reid got up, stepped into the aisle, and bounced/lurched/little-girl-ran into the bathroom. In the mirror, he stared at himself and muttered the old words that had rewired his neural circuitry in the wake of a previous rewiring, but had done nothing, along with the previous rewiring, to rewire the original neural circuitry.

"The First Step: I am powerless over my addiction, and my life has become unmanageable."

He muttered the old words for five minutes before mutating them into a new form. The new words he muttered for five minutes before the steam blew off and condensed upon the mirror. Upon the mirror, he wiped away the steam to leave the glass ready and refreshed for a new person, a new interaction, a new day, a new case, a new hack at life. This process he planned to rinse and repeat for as long as he wished. This process he planned to rinse and repeat for as long as he needed. He muttered the new words for five minutes before the jet sped down the runway and took off into the sky.

"The Last Step: I am powerless over my condition, and my life has become manageable."

* * *

Dun dun dun! The cat is finally out of the bag! This chapter says what I have thought about Reid since I started watching the show.

What I think and feel: Reid has Asperger's Syndrome (AS). He has an Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). He is an Aspie. He is autistic. He is an alien among humans or a human among aliens, whichever. There is a fundamental disconnect between the two interbreedable sub-species due to the differences in which the brain works. In real life, autistic people are more likely to be victims than criminals, but if one were to snap and kill, this might be how the thinking and feeling goes. Now that the cat is out of the bag (What cat? What bag?), AS completely permeates this story from the plot to the character to the profiles (hyperlogical, highly systematic) to the teeny-tiny details (the trees in the forest) to the writing style (wordy, repetitive, odd metaphors, sudden transitions). I hope to show what it's like for Reid from the inside out as this story goes on and also dispel myths about AS/ASD (emotionless no empathy robots who stare off into space all the time).

Example of Disconnect: In the CM fandom, there is a small percentage of viewers who absolutely despise Reid and have done so since the very beginning before he could have done anything to offend them. Perhaps they think and feel about him as an "annoying whiny self-absorbed know-it-all arrogant obnoxious smartass blowhard", "assigns him motives where he has none", and wants him to "shut up and go away". His fact-spewing behavior is interpreted as "he thinks he is better and smarter than the rest of us". For some people, this is an instinctive reaction. For other people, it's not, regardless of whether or not they are autistic. When Reid spews facts, what he is actually doing is sharing information because it is relevant or because he finds it interesting and thinks that someone else will find it interesting too and wants to know what someone else thinks about it. This is his way of connecting with people. He has no motive related to any kind of social power play. He doesn't know how to engage in social power play. To Reid, not sharing information can sometimes feel like lying. It's an instinctive behavior that he has to repress but cannot always do so and now no longer wishes to do so.

Here are some songs that make a lot of sense when viewed through the lens of AS and any kind of socially-related difference/isolation:

"Flagpole Sitta" by Harvey Danger (hey, already brought this up many chapters ago!): "I'm not sick but I'm not well, and I'm so hot cuz I'm in Hell."

"High Five Anxiety" by Nerf Herder, "What If" by Emilie Autumn

Moar: Smartassing and Blowharding.


	20. Chapter 20

Warning: Smartassing and blowharding ahead. Coffee or psychostimulant of choice is advised.

* * *

Chapter 20

Work(io), Play(io), School - the doings of a killer from the inside out.

School, Play(oi), Work(oi) - the doings of a profiler from the outside in.

Work(io), Play(io), School, Play(oi), Work(oi) - the doings of one who was both from both.

On Monday, December 6th, at the police department in Raleigh, North Carolina, both sets were valid, as was their union. Together, the three sets formed a perfect representation of the sequence of past, present, and future events in the life of a killer, a profiler, and one who was both, respectively. Over the weekend, Reid had played on Sunday after he had worked on Saturday to play on Sunday. Then, he had gone to school to learn about himself in the fastpaced autodidactic complexifying clarifying manner that he had used throughout his life to teach himself anything and everything under the stars. Now, he would do the same for the UnSub. Unlike the two types of work and the two types of play, all of which existed within and modulated the world, school existed within and modulated the mind. In the mind, a killer and a profiler went to the same school to learn about each other and others of each. During the past six weeks, a killer had played after he had worked to play, so it was now up to a profiler to learn what the playing had shown about the working and what the working had shown about the killer. At school, whenever the teacher was too lazy to prepare a lesson plan, the children would do "Show & Tell". Already, the killer had done the showing, so it was now up to the profiler to do the telling before the killer took another turn doing the showing.

Reid chugged the remainder of his coffee and tossed the styrofoam cup into the trash can. He sat up straight in his chair and dialed back into the discussion in the conference room. Immediately, the broadcast streaming through the auditory channel violated his senses, which desired the Taos hum of silence, and offended his sensibilities, which desired truth. In reciprocity, his immediate order of business was to interrupt whomever was spewing out the nonsense that he had heard, processed, and rejected before he had assigned to it its wrongful owner.

"...targeting of pregnant women indicates miso..." Prentiss said, but was interrupted by Reid.

"The targeting of pregnant women indicates an obsession with pregnancy, and possibly, with the unborn children of the victims," Reid interrupted.

"Uh, no, Reid, that's not exactly what I was going to say, but yeah, sure, whatever _you_ say," Prentiss raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips, and leaned back in her chair in an expression of sarcastic annoyance, the sarcasm being a set of non-verbal cues to demonstrate the annoyance arising from both the interruption and the post-interruption content, which, had it matched the pre-interruption content, would have made the interruption only half as annoying as it was instead mindblowingly annoying.

"The UnSub has an obsession with pregnancy," Reid noticed and ignored the cues, whatever it was that Prentiss had meant. "In all six cases, the victims were pregnant women who had just begun to 'show', either late in their first trimesters or early in their second trimesters. At three to four months along, the external signs of pregnancy are subtle and will usually go unnoticed by strangers who don't know. The fact that the UnSub had a 100% success rate targeting subtly pregnant women indicates that he has significant interest in, knowledge of, and experience with pregnancy and its external signs. Most people who are obsessed with pregnancy are obsessed with the children rather than the mothers. No one wants to hear about morning sickness, but everyone wants to see ultrasound pictures. Pregnancy is one arena of life in which the destination is far more important than the journey. For the parents, especially the mother, the ends, the birth of a healthy child, justifies any means. Take the example of my mother. When she was pregnant with me, she went off all her antipsychotic medications to avoid harming me. At the time, the typical antipsychotics - chlorpromazine, fluphenazine, and haloperidol - dominated the treatment of schizophrenia. All three drugs belong to Pregnancy Category C, only to be used if the benefits to the mother outweigh the risks to the child. Clozapine, an atypical antipsychotic belonging to the safer Pregnancy Category B, was developed in the '60s, approved in the '70s, but fell out of favor in the '80s, due to its side effects, the most significant of which was the life-threatening blood condition agranulocytosis, in which a severe acute deficiency in white blood cells, particularly neutrophils, leads to immunosuppression, infection, and septicemia, which then..."

"Stop, Reid, stop!" Morgan grabbed the wrist of a hand twirling a pen ever closer and ever more dangerously close to the eyeballs of its oblivious owner.

"Hm," Reid ceased and desisted with a soft indefinable murmur.

He replaced twirling with fidgeting and talking with thinking. He thought that his first emotion was relief. He felt relieved that Morgan had told him to stop. He thought that his second emotion was happiness. He felt happy that Morgan had told him to stop. He thought that his third emotion was gratitude. He felt grateful that Morgan had told him to stop. In addition, he felt relieved, happy, and grateful that he hadn't poked his eye out with his pen.

Otherwise, he would have continued to bore his colleagues with a thorough examination of all the atypical antipsychotics, their efficacies and side effects, and the pregnancy categories to which they belonged. Then, he would have launched into an anthology of unacceptably revealing anecdotes about his mother's aggravating experiences with olanzapine, which, like clozapine, was an atypical antipsychotic with significiant side effects, chief amongst them the movement disorder tardive dyskinesia, as suffered by Dr. Theodore Bryar aboard the Texas Eagle between El Paso and Dallas, the set of biometric parameters defining metabolic syndrome, progressing from hyperglycemia and hyperlipidemia to full-blown type 2 diabetes, and the life-threatening adverse reaction neuroleptic malignant syndrome, which was often misdiagnosed as a worsening of psychosis caused by antipsychotic medications.

Reid knew a lot about antipsychotic medications, their applications to psychosis-inducing mental disorders, and the psychosis-inducing mental disorders to which they applied. They were all topics that he would have liked to, but never did, talk about in public, because they were some of the many topics that made people uncomfortable, especially if the people knew that they affected the person talking about them. It was highly objectionable to learn, sincerely, about the first person experiences of someone affected by schizophrenia, but it was highly pleasurable to teach, superficially, about the same experiences as they affected the same someone in the third person. One time, Reid had attended a lecture on antipsychotic medications during which the speaker had mentioned that up to 1% of all humans on Earth fit the diagnostic criterion of "hearing voices". Surprised by the unexpectedly large figure, he had silently questioned the criterion of "hearing voices", as compared and contrasted with auditory hallucinations, and analyzed the evidence for and against the staggering statistic. Meanwhile, all the rest of the audience, the two to three hundred psychiatrists and psychologists in the packed auditorium, had jokingly accused each other of "hearing voices" in an attempt to isolate and ostracize the two or three people present who should have fit the criterion that no one had ceased and desisted his or her participation in the warm fuzzy mob mentality to analyze or question as the universal objective truth. After the lecture, Reid had approached the speaker to discuss the topic at length, but the speaker had first shrugged off his much too rational questions, then shied away from his all too logical analyses, all the while furrowing his brow and twisting his mouth into an expression that Reid had subsequently recognized as exasperated annoyance, which was a type of annoyance distinct from the sarcastic annoyance that Prentiss had demonstrated only a single monologue ago. Much more subsequently, he had also realized that the statistic had only been mentioned as a sensationalist tidbit to establish and consolidate the pair-wise interpersonal connections between the speaker and each member of the audience, excluding him and the one or two other people, in addition to him, who were guilty of "hearing voices", as well as the group-wise interpersonal network that included all but two or three members of the audience, the exact figure depending on both the size of the audience and the validity of the tidbit, which, being an integral aspect of the epidemiology rather than the treatment of schizophrenia, had most likely originated from a scientific publication that had been cited and not read. In that particular auditorium, packed with men and women of science, Reid had been the only one who had been interested in the universal objective truth.

Personal subjective experience and universal objective truth - the two types of topics that were most unfit for the spoken word, because they were far more than most people cared to know. Just now, Reid had said too much, and Morgan had stopped him. Even before Morgan had stopped him, Reid had known that he had said too much. It was one thing to share irrelevant facts about antipsychotic medications, but it was quite another to share equally irrelevant stories about his mother, her pregnancy, her psychosis-inducing mental disorder, and the antipsychotic medications that she had taken and not taken to treat and not treat her psychosis-inducing mental disorder. Unlike "Star Wars", schizophrenia was a topic that Reid only talked about in front of obvious psychos such as Dr. Theodore Bryar and Randall Garner The Fisher King. All the rest of the time, he kept his mouth shut about the topic, not because he instinctively avoided it, but because he purposefully avoided it as a topic that most people instinctively avoided, at the same time that they instinctively believed, in purposeful ignorance and quite erroneously, that schizophrenic people were "very likely" or "somewhat likely" to commit violent crimes, as had been the belief of 70% of Americans in a major study on the social stigma of neurological deviations from the norm. For most people, schizophrenia was so far outside the realm of their personal subjective experiences that they cared to know about neither the personal subjective experiences of others or the universal objective truths about the condition. Both were far more than most people cared to know, and so were both objectionable. Regarding this particular psychology and behavior, Reid saw the forest, but not the trees. Which was specifically more objectionable - the facts or the stories? Which was generally more objectionable - the caring or the knowing? Why were either, any, or all objectionable at all?

For these questions, Reid no longer sought the answers. He was 29 years old and no longer a young person. It was high time for him to outgrow the personal force field that he had used throughout his life to shield himself from others and others from himself. At 29 years old, it was no longer his burden to shield others from the physical and mental exhaustion that they were sure to suffer in his presence. If he became too much or too little for them, then they could choose to run away from him. So could they choose to run away if he told them about his mother, her pregnancy, her schizophrenia, his potential schizophrenia, his pathological phobia, nay, anxiety disorder, associated with his potential schizophrenia, or his pathological obsession, nay, stereotyped interest of abnormal intensity, in his potential schizophrenia, all in terms, no matter how simple or complex or deplorable or uplifting, that told things as they most truthfully were. Sometimes, a psycho with a whistle was a psycho with a whistle was a psycho with a whistle, just as monoamines, dopamine, norepinephrine, and serotonin were some of the surging brain compounds involved in love, which also involved chemicals controlled by phenethylamine, found in both peas and chocolate. As for himself, if others became too much or too little for him, then he could also choose to run away from them after he had also chosen to get rid of them. If the phenomenon had ever been termed in the scientific literature, then he was sure that it would have been termed "fight-and-flight".

"As I was saying..." Reid followed the sound of Prentiss's voice back into the discussion. "The targeting of pregnant women _may_ indicate a misogynistic UnSub taking out his hatred against women in their unique defining role as mothers."

"Actually, that would be the best evidence that the UnSub is not a misogynist," Reid rejected the nonsense, this time waiting, then taking, his turn to do the telling. "In theory, misogyny is simplistically defined as the hatred of all women just for being women, but in practice, the situation is much more complicated than that. Most misogynists don't hate all women. Most only hate specific types of women. Pregnant women living in quiet suburban neighborhoods don't make up a hated group. Rather, their pregnancies elevate them in the minds of misogynists who subscribe to the mother/whore dichotomy, also known as the Madonna-whore complex. The dichotomy labels all women as either 'mothers' or 'whores'. There is no other category. Women who are virtuous, warm, and loving are regarded as 'mothers', and all others are regarded as 'whores'. In romantic relationships, misogynistic men look for 'mothers', and if found, view their partners as sons view their mothers, seeking to fulfill, in adulthood, the emotional needs that went unmet in childhood. This is usually the result of growing up with cold distant mothers who neglected the emotional developments of their sons, because they could not or would not assume the traditional role of the nurturing mother, for whatever reason that may or may not be any fault of their own. In adulthood, instead of resenting their mothers for creating the emotional voids, the sons look for partners to fill them, specifically for partners who resemble their mothers in physical appearance and/or personality traits, but often in a romanticized idealized manner that distorts the original image out of recognition to create pure holy Madonna figures in the forms of their wives or girlfriends. Such relationships are sexually dysfunctional, because the male partners regard intimate relations with the female partners as the worst form of incest. In the minds of misogynists, 'mothers' are placed on pedestals, and motherhood is sacred, so pregnant women who are actual mothers are unlikely targets for a misogynistic UnSub, who is far more likely to abuse women in the category of 'whores', whether or not they are actual whores."

Reid stopped and looked up from the conference table. He looked around the table, shifting his eyes from colleague to colleague, waiting for one of them to reciprocate. Prentiss, Morgan, and Rossi stared blankly, while Hotch frowned slightly and moved his mouth, signaling his intention to speak. Reid recognized the cues and cut them off before Hotch could open his mouth to get a word out.

"An obsession with pregnancy indicates an UnSub who has lost an unborn child of his own," Reid continued. "For the UnSub, the means had no ends. The journey had no destination, because it was..."

"The UnSub doesn't seem to be the only one obsessed with pregnancy," Rossi interrupted with a sly smile.

Reid noticed and ignored the cues, whatever it was that Rossi had meant, and chose instead to finish his own statement, "The journey had no destination, because it was aborted."

"Aborted," Morgan repeated back at him.

"Aborted, as in abortion," Reid explained. "Prior to the crimes, the UnSub was a stable individual in a stable relationship with his wife or girlfriend. She got pregnant. He wanted the child. She didn't. She had an abortion. He started killing pregnant women," he paused to review, evaluate, and edit his analysis. "But that's only the big picture," he continued, satisfied that his words had stood up to logical review. "The details tell us that..."

"Wait, Reid, wait!" Morgan put up a hand to ward off another monologue.

"Hm," Reid ceased and desisted with another murmur.

"Where are you getting all this?" Morgan asked pointedly. "So far, there's not a single scrap of evidence for anything you've said. Right now, you're not even profiling. What Prentiss was doing earlier was profiling, what you're doing now is...making stuff up."

"Yes, storytelling," Reid answered, tapping his fingers against the table while tapping his right foot, next to his wrong foot, against the floor. "I'm telling a story about the UnSub, but it's not a story that I made up out of the blue. It's a story based on and triggered by what the UnSub has shown me through his crimes. The UnSub killed six women of varying ages, varying ethnicities, and similar socioeconomic status. The ages of the victims were 23, 36, 29, 31, 42, and 27. That covers the most common range of ages for pregnant women. The ethnicities were Asian, black, white, white, Latino, and black. That covers the most common range of ethnicities for the racially diverse region of the Triangle. The socioeconomic status was suburban middle class. Six of the six victims were pregnant. Five of the six victims were married. Four of the six victims were employed. Three of the six victims were four months pregnant. Three of the six victims were three months pregnant. Two of the six victims worked at two of the three large universities in the Triangle - Duke and NC State. One of the six victims worked at Research Triangle Park. The only commonalities amongst the victims were their socioeconomic status, which was the chicken that laid the egg of the quiet suburban neighborhoods from which they were plucked off the sidewalk, and their pregnancy status, which, at three to four months along, most likely matched the pregnancy status of the UnSub's wife or girlfriend at the time when she had the abortion that was the external stressor for the crimes."

"See, Reid, it _kind_ of makes sense when you say it _that_ way," Morgan nodded in tentative agreement. "Even the part about the chicken laying the egg...That was weird, but..._you_. You can't just jump into, 'The UnSub is obsessed with pregnancy! The UnSub is obsessed with unborn children! Names of drugs! Names of diseases! Mothers! Whores! Mothers! Whores!" he chuckled as he performed a poor impression of Reid's characteristic (in)coherence.

"Yeah, Reid, good for you," Rossi joined in with an amused snicker. "You should be proud of yourself. You said 'six of six, five of six, etcetera, etcetera', all without converting any of the numbers into percentages. That part sounded _almost_ normal, although the _rest_..." he glanced over at Prentiss for whatever it was that she was supposed to give him.

"Give him a break, Dave," Prentiss snorted in tinkling laughter. "Hey, look on the bright side! Reid _didn't_ recite the statistics for the age ranges of pregnant women or the ethnicities in the region or the income brackets of the suburban middle class."

"Hallelujah!" Morgan gave Prentiss a fist bump.

Reid looked down at the table, averting his eyes from the teasing smiles of his colleagues. He clicked his pen on to doodle on the back of his case file. He doodled a star, then another, then another and another and another, the five stars coming together to form the small unassuming constellation Cancer. In the night sky, Cancer lay to the east of the big bright constellation Gemini, with its big bright stars Castor and Pollux, and to the west of the big bright constellation Leo, with its big bright star Regulus. From the perspective of Earth, Cancer had no big bright stars of its own, but that was only because all seven of its named stars were very very very far away. Still, Cancer held the distinction of being one of only three constellations (33.33%) in the Zodiac (8.33%) to which Active SETI had sent radio messages to contact extraterrestrial civilizations living on planets or moons within the habitable zones of exoplanetary host star systems, including 37 Geminorum in Gemini, 55 Cancri in Cancer, and Gliese 581 in Libra. At Gliese 581 in Libra, the first message was scheduled to arrive in 2029. Within the six-planet star system, planet g was closer to Earth in mass and volume than Earth was close to Mars, was big enough to have a dense but not too dense atmosphere, sat smack dab in the middle of the habitable zone of liquid water, and was considered an airy watery rocky not too firey or unfirey Super-Earth Goldilocks planet with the greatest potential for extraterrestrial life of the more than 500 extrasolar planets that had been discovered so far. Reid doodled the four-star pattern of Libra on the back of his case file. Like Cancer, Libra was a small unassuming constellation surrounded by big bright giants, between Virgo, the largest constellation in the Zodiac, to the west, and Scorpio, with the angry red eye of the once and/or future supernova Antares, to the east. In the Zodiac, Libra was the astrological sign for people born between September 23 and October 22. It was also the only astrological sign that was an inanimate object. Reid recognized it as his own sign, but he had never identified with it fully, because it was a positive extrovert sign that only fit him during one of his long rambling monologues when he was so caught up in the world of universal objective truths that he blocked out both the physical world and the world of personal subjective experiences, both those of himself and those of others. All the rest of the time, he thought of himself as a combination of Cancer and Libra, the two cardinal signs denoting summer and fall, with the emotional traits of the water sign Cancer and the intellectual traits of the air sign Libra. Together, the two signs conferred to him intense genuine emotion and intense genuine intellect, such as had required a personal force field to shield others from himself. In the past, Reid had always given the gift of his intellect, freely to others and at an emotional cost to himself. In the future, Reid would still give the gift of his intellect, but it was high time for others to help him shoulder the burden.

"The income brackets of the suburban middle class vary from region to region within the same country and from city to city within the same region," Reid answered, because his colleagues had asked. "What's middle class in one region may be upper class, upper middle class, lower middle class, or working class in another region. In Fairfax County, Virginia, the median household income is above $100,000, while in Buffalo County, South Dakota, the median household income is below $15,000. In the Triangle, the median household income ranges from just above $40,000 in Durham to more than $50,000 in Chapel Hill, with Raleigh in the middle. The median family income is distinct from the median household income, and is usually higher, because it includes only households in which two or more people are related by marriage, blood, or adoption, and such households tend to be the most stable and highest-earning. In the Triangle, the median family income ranges from just above $50,000 in Durham to $60,000 in Raleigh to more than $90,000 in Chapel Hill. Of the six victims, three lived in Raleigh, two in Durham, and one in Chapel Hill, all within neighborhoods that fit the suburban middle class income brackets for those cities, and all within neighborhoods that were older, more well-established, and less flashy than some of the newer developments that have popped up during the past decade."

"Thank you, Mr. Census Bureau G-Man!" came the sound of a voice that belonged to someone who had just joined in the discussion from an unnecessarily long flight away.

"The socioeconomic status of the victims is the status to which the UnSub aspired," Reid continued, ignoring Garcia's sudden appearance on the laptop screen. "If the UnSub is employed, which he most likely is, because all the abductions occurred during the early evening hours, presumably after work, then he is most likely a blue collar wage earner in the working class. Prior to his crimes, he had aspired to an upwards-mobile career and a stable home with his wife and child, but his hopes were dashed when his wife or girlfriend had an abortion, killed his child, and effectively ended their relationship. My guess is that he broke up with her rather than she with him, because he was unable to forgive the abortion, which in his mind, as in the minds of many other people, was a heinous unforgivable crime."

"That doesn't make any sense, Reid," Morgan frowned deeply. "Are you saying that an UnSub who is against abortion is killing pregnant women and their unborn children? He's against one type of heinous unforgivable crime while simultaneously committing another type targeting the same victims? That doesn't make any sense at all! That's the most screwed up thing I've ever heard!"

"It doesn't make any sense if we assume that the UnSub is an emotionally stable individual engaging in logical thinking," Reid said.

"Well, if you're saying that the UnSub is a psycho, then yeah, all bets are off..." Morgan said.

"I'm not saying that the UnSub is a psycho," Reid argued. "I'm only saying that he's not engaging in logical thinking, at least regarding his crimes. People who don't engage in logical thinking on a regular basis make up the large majority of the human population, but that doesn't make them psychotic in any way. Research has shown that most people are emotional rather than logical thinkers, which isn't surprising given that emotional cues establish and consolidate the connections between individual members of human societies and hold societies together as functional wholes. People who are driven by logical rather than emotional thinking are rare and usually end up as oddballs within such societies, because they are lacking not in emotion itself, but in applying the intuitive abilities used to discern and respond to the emotional thought processes of people who are driven by emotional rather than logical thinking, who are lacking not in intellect itself, but in applying the analytical abilities used to discern and respond to the logical thought processes of people who are driven by logical rather than emotional thinking. If all people were logical thinkers, then there would be no need to apply the intuitive abilities used to discern and respond to the thoughts and feelings of others, because everyone would be operating on the same playing field, abiding by the same clear-cut rules of logic, which are rigid, immutable, and can be learned in school, as Aristotle had taught Alexander the Great when 'logic' was known, by the Ancient Greeks, as 'dialectic' or 'analytic'. Even scientists and engineers who think logically in their professional lives engage in mostly emotional thinking in their personal lives. Such people may be the luckiest of all, because they are capable of employing a balance of both, without an excess of the irrational errors resulting from emotional thinking and with the emotional intuition that an excess of logical thinking rejects as irrational and incomprehensible. There may or may not be people who engage in purely logical or purely emotional thinking all of the time, but those who are much better at one over the other, especially those who are much better at logical over emotional thinking, often find themselves isolated from society as a result of their neurological deviations from the norm. However, that doesn't make them any less human, because logical and emotional thinking are both defining cognitive processes that separate humans from animals, who are driven by instinct and engage in neither logical or emotional thinking."

"I don't know if I understand how emotional thinking would make an UnSub kill pregnant women because his wife had an abortion," Prentiss thought out loud, logically. "I guess he could be taking out his anger, frustration, and disappointment on the victims. But those are really pure emotions rather than emotional _thinking_. The thinking still doesn't make any sense."

"By definition, emotional thinking doesn't make any sense," Reid replied. "But we all do it, some more or less than average, and the very fact that there is an average and a range on either side of it suggests that there is a finite set of emotional thought processes that we recognize as normal and human. That's the range that we've defined as 'making sense', even though, logically, the emotional thinking may not make any sense at all. Everything outside that range is considered abnormal and possibly inhuman. Research has shown that what humans fear the most are not inanimate objects or inhuman aliens, but facsimiles of humans that are not intuitively human within a fairly narrow range of human qualities. This is the idea of the uncanny valley, first proposed by the Japanese roboticist Masahiro Mori. Things that are somewhat inhuman range from life-sized dolls to humanoid robots to humans whose psychologies and behaviors lie outside an expected range of psychologies and behaviors, with the deviations coming down to neurological differences between a large majority and a small minority. The crowd instinctively fears the individual outside itself and purposefully designates that individual as having a mental disorder or illness that must be cured to apparently benefit the individual but to actually benefit the crowd by alleviating the irrational fears resulting from errors in logical thinking on the parts of many, but not all, individual members of the crowd. For the UnSub, what he's doing doesn't make any sense to us, the crowd around him, because it's outside the range of most of our psychologies and behaviors. In this case, I think that there are two alternative explanations for the UnSub's psychology and behavior. One, he has taken emotional thinking to an extreme by abandoning logical thinking completely, or two, he has taken logical thinking to an extreme by applying it as magical thinking."

"Magical thinking?" Garcia asked. "Did I hear that right? Magical as in magic?"

"In the first scenario, the UnSub abandons logical thinking in favor of emotional thinking," Reid plowed ahead, ignoring Garcia's questions. "Emotional thinking is distinct from emotions themselves, as the thought processes draw conclusions, often irrational and ridiculous, based on the emotions, while the emotions themselves simply are. An example might go like this, 'I feel terrible that I made a mistake at work today. I am a terrible employee. I am stupid and incompetent. I am a total failure in both work and life.' This example contains multiple cognitive distortions that would never have appeared if the person had thought logically rather than emotionally. There's the all-or-nothing distortion: Either you're a total failure or a total success in both work and life. Overgeneralization: You made a single mistake, so you must be stupid and incompetent all around. Mental filter: You focus only on your single mistake rather than the numerous useful things that you accomplished at work that day. In this case, the UnSub might be thinking like this, 'My wife had an abortion and killed our child, so I've lost everything that I've worked for and dreamed of all my life. My life is over. I don't care about anything anymore. Screw her, screw me, screw everyone else. I'm going to obsess over pregnancy, pregnant women, and unborn children, and while I'm at it, it's no big deal for me to kill a few pregnant women and their unborn children too.' Then, he proceeds to think logically as a serial killer, planning and committing his crimes as work and play, but the internal stressor for his crimes was the illogical emotional thinking, which was caused by, but distinct, from his actual emotions of anger, frustration, and disappointment, which were completely normal and healthy for his circumstances."

"You've gotta be kidding me," Morgan shook his head in disbelief. "Are you telling me that most people think like _this_? Forget the UnSub. I can understand how losing a child would be a traumatic experience for anyone, but that first example is even more disturbing. Are you saying that every little thing that goes wrong in everyday life would send most people into some kind of hysterical shame spiral?"

"No, not most people," Reid shook his head back at Morgan. "Just many people, at some point or other during their lives. Certain people are more susceptible to this type of self-defeating, potentially self-destructive emotional thinking, but the irrational errors that generate the negative beliefs can be defeated by logical thinking when it is purposefully applied to override the instinctive emotional thinking. That's the whole basis of cognitive behavioral therapy, which, in many cases, is more effective than medication for relieving anxiety and depression."

"Why do you think everyone's in therapy these days?" Rossi chuckled at Morgan, as if he hadn't heard Reid at all. "What do you think Prozac is for? How else are my pharmaceutical stocks going to go up?"

"The other little blue pill?" Prentiss smirked.

"Pills of Prozac are half-beige half-green capsules," Reid clarified unnecessarily. "The shade of green is best described as 'seafoam', which is associated with a feeling of calmness, and is often used as part of the color palette in bedrooms, such as on walls or curtains or bedding, to help people decompress at the end of a long tedious day," this, truly unnecessarily.

"Um, excuse me, Dr. Head Shrinker Shrunken Head!" Garcia pointed the fluffy end of a fluffy pen through the laptop screen. "You still haven't answered my question about magical thinking."

"Magical thinking is similar to logical thinking," Reid answered. "As thought processes, the two are indistinguishable. Both are examples of causal reasoning, which looks for cause-and-effect correlations within a set of facts. Take the example of an apple falling out of a tree. Isaac Newton sits under a tree. An apple falls out and hits him on the head. Newton asks himself why the apple fell out of the tree. If he thinks logically, then he reasons that the apple was subject to a downward force that attracted it towards the ground. Further, he reasons that if an attractive force exists between the apple and the ground, two objects not in contact with each other, then the same attractive force may exist between all objects in the universe. He comes up with equations to describe the motion caused by the force. He does experiments to test the predictions of the equations. In this system, everything - the apple, the tree, the ground, the force, the motion - exists within and modulates the world. In this system, hypotheses are tested and shown to be true or untrue. If he thinks magically, then he reasons that the apple was subject to a force from his mind, which, after thinking, consciously or subconsciously, about the apple falling out of the tree, causes the apple to fall out of the tree. In this other system, the mind, existing outside the world, somehow modulates the world. In this other system, the idea of falsifying hypotheses is non-existent. In fact, Newton could have come up with the theory of universal gravitation through magical thinking, but in a culture based on magical rather than logical thinking, no one would have tested the predictions of the equations. Alternatively, Newton could have come up with the psychic theory through logical thinking, but in a culture based on logical rather than magical thinking, the hypothesis would have been tested and falsified. Logical thinking is the basis for science. Magical thinking is the basis for religion, superstition, the Boogeyman in the dark, the Kryptonians around the corner, and the delusional beliefs of paranoid schizophrenics and children."

"Why is one more valid than the other if both are examples of causal reasoning?" Hotch spoke up for the first time. "Why are causes rooted in the world more valid than causes rooted in the mind?"

"I didn't say that one was more valid than the other," Reid replied. "It only appears that way, because Western civilization is currently based on logical rather than magical thinking. There are human cultures based on both types of thinking, and all humans engage in all three types of thinking - emotional, logical, and magical. Emotional thinking helps us understand each other. Logical thinking helps us understand the world. Magical thinking covers the phenomena that are not yet understood, such as apples falling out of trees in the past and near-death experiences in the present."

"I gave up on that a long time ago," Prentiss declared.

"What? Near-death experiences or magical thinking?" Morgan asked.

"Not too keen on magical thinking. Not anymore at least. I'll stick to logic, thanks," Prentiss replied.

"What's your favorite sports team?" Reid asked out of the blue.

"The Yankees," Prentiss answered with a puzzled look.

"Do you ever watch their games on TV and send them good vibes through the screen?" Reid asked.

"Well, yeah, because I want my team to win," Prentiss answered.

"That's magical thinking, Prentiss," Morgan pointed out. "Looks like you haven't given up on that after all! Looks like Little Miss Logic isn't quite as logical as she thinks!" he sing-songed in a teasing manner as Prentiss rolled her eyes and pff'd in sheepish contempt. "Good one, Reid," he clenched his hand into a fist and held it out towards Reid.

For a moment, Reid stared at the fist in his face. Somewhere in the depths of his amazing mind, a lightbulb flickered, flickered again, then lit up to its full brightness after a short flickering delay. Reid gave Morgan a shy timid little fist bump. Morgan reached behind him and slapped him lightly on the back of the head. Without anyone noticing, Reid smiled down at his bedoodled case file. The smile, though small and muted and hardly noticeable beyond a twitching of the lips on one side of his face, was also completely genuine and intensely happy.

"_Excuse_ me, _may_ I?" Rossi raised a finger into the air.

"Go on, Old Fart, we haven't heard from _you_ in awhile," Garcia granted him permission to speak.

"..." Rossi lost the power of speech, but only briefly. "Reid," he recovered. "For those rare precious moments when apples _aren't_ falling out of trees, what exactly does magical thinking have to do with the UnSub?"

"Oh right, I forgot!" Reid recalled his earlier train of thought. "The UnSub may be engaging in magical thinking in the same way that he may be engaging in emotional thinking. Either way, the thinking is the internal stressor for his crimes. Magical thinking creates correlations between the world and the things we think, but the same correlations can be created between the world and the things we do. If you make a voodoo doll of your enemy and stab it, then your enemy is supposed to feel pain. If the UnSub abducts and kills pregnant women, then something is supposed to happen or not happen. In his mind, magical thinking allows him to correlate his crimes with whatever it is that he thinks is happening or not happening in the world as a result of his actions."

"That could be anything," Hotch said. "Whatever he thinks is happening as a result of his crimes could be anything at all."

"Yes," Reid nodded. "Anything from keeping the universe intact to preventing planes from crashing to helping the BAU solve crimes. It's most likely some kind of delusion, grandiose, paranoid, or both, based on a non-existent correlation between X and Y, but in terms of the specific details, it could be anything at all."

"So the UnSub could be a psycho after all?" Morgan asked.

"Yes, if everyone on the schizophrenia spectrum is a psycho," Reid answered.

"The schizophrenia spectrum?" Prentiss tilted her head sideways, trying to recall whether she had ever heard the term before.

"Increasingly, schizophrenia is regarded not as a single disorder, but as a spectrum of multiple overlapping subtypes that display many of the same behavioral traits to varying degrees of severity," Reid explained. "In truth, 'continuum' may be a more accurate term than 'spectrum'. A 'spectrum' brings to mind a rainbow of distinct colors that group the subtypes into different bands, such as schizophrenia, schizotypal personality disorder, and schizoid personality disorder, while a 'continuum' includes all the traits of all the subtypes without any artifactual discontinuities to disrupt a continuous spectrum of colors. This particular way of classifying psychological abnormalities originated during the late 19th and early 20th centuries from research on schizophrenic and affective disorders, such as major depressive disorder, also known as clinical depression, and bipolar disorder, also known as manic depression, but is now most frequently used for the autism spectrum, which includes classical autism, split by functioning level, Asperger syndrome, and atypical autism, also known as pervasive developmental disorder-not otherwise specified, split by severity level, with the haphazard labeling and leveling of all refuting the spectrum/continuum concept in favor of individual points, temporally and environmentally mobile, on a many-dimensional plot, to be clustered and reclustered for entertainment purposes only. In the DSM, there are also diagnoses of psychosis-not otherwise specified and personality disorder-not otherwise specified, and all of these NOS categories may be regarded as failures of an outside in approach to psychology, which, as a field, could be narrowed and renamed 'behavior', while the field formerly known as 'psychology' could be merged into the field of 'cognitive neuroscience', which takes an inside out approach, starting with the brain itself. Cognitive neuroscience is abbreviated as CNS, which is also the abbreviation for central nervous system, and the matching of the two abbreviations, for the study of the mind and its brain, is..." Reid spun the letters of the abbreviation, around and around and around, in the rich vibrant visual channel before his eyes, "...beautiful..." he trailed off with a distant gaze of contentment.

"Do you regret asking?" Morgan directed at Prentiss.

"A little," Prentiss flip-flopped her hand over the table.

"So what do we do with all this...information?" Rossi flip-flopped his own hand over the table, referring to the spectacular bombardment of extrania to which he had been subjected for the past hour.

"We go back to basics," Hotch announced decisively. "Garcia, search all available medical records for abortions performed in the area in 2010, focusing on the month of October, when the crimes first started."

"Ummmmmmm, Head Hotcho?" Garcia peered hesitantly through the laptop screen.

"Yes, I do realize that you'd have to hack into the medical records illegally," Hotch said matter-of-factly. "But we don't have much else to go on in this case, so please use your best discretion, cover your tracks, and make sure that you don't compromise the security of the patients and doctors involved. For the record, this isn't something that I would prefer to do, but we don't have time to subpoena medical records from all the abortion clinics in the region before the UnSub kills again."

"Aye aye, Captain Jack!" Garcia assumed her pirate persona. "Rules be more like guidelines, yarrrrrrr? Garcia be gettin' 'erself a motherload o'grog, be keepin' scallawaggy landlubbers out o' Davy Jones' Locker. Savvy?"

"Shiver me timbers, shiver me timbers," Morgan played the token parrot.

"That was all kinds of wrong," Prentiss shook her head at the deplorable display.

"Reid," Hotch tuned out the unusual proceedings. "Do you really think that the UnSub is mentally ill?"

"To be honest, I have no idea," Reid replied. "I was only conjecturing two alternative scenarios based on two types of thinking. Logically, from a population standpoint, the first scenario is far more likely than the second. I wouldn't bet much on the second."

"Alright, let's not complicate things then," Hotch concluded. "We'll assume that the UnSub is emotionally unstable but rooted in reality rather than mentally ill and indulging in fantasy. We can keep that possibility in the back of our heads in case it comes up again. Why don't we take a break before we meet with the victims' families? I think we all need one by now."

"What about the press conference?" Rossi reminded Hotch.

"The press conference," Hotch frowned with a sigh. "We can't mention the word 'abortion' until we've identified an UnSub and connected his ex-wife or -girlfriend to the external stressor. Crimes associated with abortions? That's going to inflame all the abortion activist groups, no matter which side they're on. We're going to need a quick cover story, a fake profile of sorts...It doesn't have to be complete, just something to show that we're making progress on the case."

"Misogyny," Reid suggested.

"I'll work on that," Prentiss volunteered for the distasteful task. "I'll build a fake profile around misogyny that also fits the rest of the evidence and what we've determined about the UnSub based on the real profile. Good thing there isn't much evidence to fit. See? There's a bright side to everything! Let's see, what can I come up with on the fly? How about this? The UnSub is a misogynistic bastard who hates pregnant women because they were disgusting whores to have had disgusting sex to have gotten disgustingly pregnant in the first place. No, I can't possibly say that in public. Sorry, guys, I'm going to have to think about this one for awhile."

"Morgan, help Prentiss with the fake profile," Hotch ordered.

"After you, Little Miss Sunshine," Morgan stood up and walked to the door.

"I see that it's Ethics Day in the BAU," Rossi muttered under his breath.

"I know, Dave, I know," Hotch answered the complaint. "But we don't really have much choice here. The families are arriving in an hour," he checked his watch. "Everyone, get ready to interview them for any links between any of the victims and the UnSub. Dave, you can interview the family of the first victim. If successful, an initial crime involving a known victim sometimes escalates into a series of crimes involving unknown victims, so it's most likely that the UnSub knew or knew of the first victim rather than any of the others."

"Got it," Rossi ambled through the open doorway, followed by Hotch and Prentiss.

"Reid, you coming?" Morgan glanced back at Reid sitting at the table.

"Um, yeah, in a little bit," Reid glanced up from his doodling.

"Hey, Man, uh..." Morgan hesitated in the midst of saying something.

"What is it?" Reid gave Morgan his full attention.

"Uh, well, it's just that I couldn't help noticing that you're, uh, suddenly a lot more open with, you know, talking about schizophrenia, which you never really talked about before," Morgan bumbled his way through the statement.

"Yeah, you're right," Reid nodded slowly. "Yeah, I wouldn't have talked about it in the past. I used to be afraid...actually, more like terrified...of becoming a paranoid schizophrenic like my mother, constantly thinking that any day could be the day that I wake up with voices in my head, but recently, I feel like I'm outgrowing my fears. Thinking about it, talking about it...These things don't really bother me anymore. I used to be both terrified and obsessed, but now, I guess I'm just obsessed."

"Well, that's good," Morgan said encouragingly. "Just a little obsessed isn't that big of a deal. We're all a little obsessed with _something_. For me, it's working out, and it's not just about the ladies. But no use in worrying about what you can't control, right? And no use in letting it bother you either. Actually, it all comes down to logic."

"That or Prozac," Reid raised one naughty eyebrow and contorted his face into a happily vacant half-grimace half-grin.

"OK, Reid, don't ever do that again," Morgan edged his way out the door. "I'm serious, Kid, that look scared the shit out of me. That's the stuff of nightmares. I'm going to pretend that I never saw it and go make up fake profiles with Prentiss instead. But yeah, if you ever want to talk about whatever's on your mind..."

"Thanks, Morgan, I will," Reid replied with a half-smile half-nod, all his words and non-words genuine expressions of his genuine self that he would have liked, but could no longer, show and tell.

Morgan gave him a thumbs-up, stepped into the hallway, and closed the door to block out the chaotic buzz of the police station outside. Reid was glad that he was in here and not out there. In here, it was quiet and dim, the overhead lights turned off to let in the natural illumination of a cloudy winter day. In here, he was alone with his amazing mind, with stressors, all internal and none external, to disrupt its amazing functions, so it was free to go for a walk in a park devoid of victims for him to kill.

In his mind, a map appeared, a big picture with small details taking up his entire field of view. It was a map of the United States, with two glowing red dots in the lower right quadrant. One was centered where his body sat, over the Triangle in eastern North Carolina. The other was centered where his mind wandered, to the Atlanta metropolitan area in northern Georgia. With a zoom, a glowing red line connected the dots. The line was a laser, bright and focused, and Reid stared with his mouth open as two other lasers leaped off the map to center themselves over his own body. He looked down at his tie to see the overlapping green and blue dots at the ends of the green and blue lasers that connected him to the red dots on the map. Together, the dots formed the vertices of an equilateral triangle, and the lasers made up the sides. As Reid stared, the lasers strengthened in intensity. For an eternity of minutes, Reid stared, and the lasers strenghthened, and Reid stared, and the lasers strenghthened, and Reid stared, and the lasers strenghthened.

It was not for naught.

In a quiet dim room on a cloudy winter day, an amazing mind blocked out the world to hear its own voice and see its own vision. It engaged in logical thinking, the egg of its intelligence, and lateral thinking, the egg of its creativity, and magical thinking, the yolk and white of mysterious life that it had cause, all and none, to fear and indulge. It engaged in all these, but the internal stressor of its epiphany was the emotional thinking, at once a gift and a curse, that guaranteed its perpetual exclusion, whichever spectrum or continuum or plot it landed on whenever wherever, from the uncanny valley, where it sometimes made enough errors in logical thinking to believe that it belonged.

Reid felt a wave of excitement flood through him, from front to back until he was breathlessly overwhelmed with feelings, then thoughts, emotion, then intellect. Just as it should, the emotional intuition lasted only a few seconds before the logical analysis took over, just as it should. Logically, Reid resolved the thoughts into his own voice in his own head. It spoke to him and through him in its complexifying clarifying manner, words out of the blue and words out loud.

In a soft indefinable murmur, Reid spoke of his personal subjective experience in the words of the universal objective truth, "Years ago, if Spencer Reid had been looking for a father, which he had, then Jason Gideon had been looking for a son, which he also had."

Reid fumbled for his cell phone, knocked it onto the floor, picked it up, and dialed Garcia.

"Ahoy, me hearties! Arrrrrrr!" Garcia answered.

"Trilateration," Reid saw his own vision, heard his own voice, and spoke the truth, giving, as he always did, his gifts to those who could sometimes receive them, while receiving, as he sometimes did, the gifts of those who sometimes gave them.

* * *

Note: Reid "hearing voices" doesn't mean that Reid is schizophrenic. Many introverted people have a well-developed internal voice that is as real as someone else's external voice, but they realize that the voice belongs to themselves. The story about the schizophrenia lecture is true though. I went to such a lecture and couldn't figure out for the longest time afterwards why everyone refused to discuss the statistic with me. :(

Also, let me re-emphasize that neither people on the autism or schizophrenia plots are "very likely" or "somewhat likely" to commit violent crimes, regardless of what happens in this story.

Finally, I admit that I have a numerological obsession with the number 3. It is totally healthy though. :)

Moar: Trilateration! 3! 3! 3!


	21. Chapter 21

Warning: I hope you like the number 3 as much as I do. Also, the part in "Masterpiece" where Reid twirls around with his equations. Also, sorry for updating so little recently. Sqool Krap (TM).

* * *

Chapter 21

When two points connected, the connection was a line. When two spheres intersected, the intersection was a circle. The points representing the North Carolina and Georgia cases connected in a line. The spheres representing the North Carolina and Georgia cases intersected in a circle. Against a dark starless field, the figures - the points, the line, the spheres, and the circle - glowed in the visual channel and zoomed in the auditory channel, conceiving a world to show and tell a truth to a mind that cared and dared to know it.

To the mind that cared and dared to know, the two figures - the line and the circle - represented the two killers who had gone to school at two times and two places within the one mind after they had worked and played at two times and two places within the one world. For triangulation and trilateration to work and play, one and two were insufficient, so three was necessary to show and tell the truth.

With his eyes, Reid stared intensely into the air a few feet from his face. With his mind, he stared intensely at the figures upon the field. He closed his eyes. The figures disappeared. He opened his eyes. The figures reappeared. Intensely, he stared into the air to conjure up a big red reset button. It appeared, not before his eyes as an honored guest, but behind his forehead as a serving utensil, bearing a striking resemblance to the Staples easy button. Without the aid of his fingers, physical or mental, he pressed it. Like slices of bread in a toaster, the button dropped down, froze in place, and popped back up, its clinking clanking motions wiping the field clean to fill the room with the aroma of fresh toast, strawberry jam, and coffee, dark as the field, to go along with breakfast. To Reid, mathematics was simple, but narrative complex, so one had to be shown, sum by sum in summation, before the other could be told, as the integral whole.

On a map of the United States, two red points appeared, one in North Carolina and one in Georgia. Holding the points steady, Reid blinked to undraw the map. Letting go, he labeled one point "NC" and one point "GA", the two points wobbling in place until a line zoomed, left to right, to connect them. Like the points, the line glowed red. Reid labeled it "US". Together, the one line, two points, and three labels glowed red and zoomed soft, waiting for the three labels, two lines, and one point that were necessary and sufficient to complete the triangle.

Intensely, Reid stared, and as he stared, the point "NC" glowed red, then green, then yellow, a green line zooming to connect it to a green point centered over his own body, dead-center over his chest and off-center over his heart. He stared further, and as he stared, the point "GA" glowed red, then blue, then magenta, a blue line zooming to connect it to a blue point centered over the green point that glowed green, then blue, then cyan. He labeled the green line "JG", the blue line "TH", and the point "SR". Brilliantly, the triangle glowed, its colors fitting the trichromatic color model of machines conceived to fit the trichromatic color vision of humans, each of whom differentiated millions of different colors with his one mind and two eyes, each of which contained three types of cone cells to respond to three types of wavelengths of visible light - L for long (564-580 nm), M for medium (534-545 nm), and S for short (420-440 nm). In the RGB color model, the three primary colors red, green, and blue combined at different intensities to produce millions of different colors. At equal intensities, two primary colors combined to produce one secondary color, and three primary colors combined to produce white light. In the triangle, red and green combined to produce yellow, red and blue magenta, green and blue cyan, and red, green, and blue white light. Reid stared, and as he stared, the figures - the points and the lines - glowed white to triangulate a truth, from the inside out, that he had cared and dared to know. He stared further, and as he stared, the point "SR" flipped upwards and away, taking with it all the other figures, to rotate the plane of the triangle parallel to the plane of the field. Brilliantly, the triangle glowed white upon the field. Now that none of the points was centered over his own body, Reid saw and heard the truth, glowing and zooming, from the outside in as well.

Holding himself steady, he revolved the field around his body to place the triangle at the back of his mind, leaving behind a primordial darkness unconstellated by stars yet to be born. He blinked to redraw the map. On a map of the United States, two red points appeared. He blinked to undraw the map, leaving behind the two points that wobbled in place until they expanded in three dimensions into the two spheres that blew up in size until they intersected in a circle. He labeled one sphere "GA", one sphere "NC", and the circle "US". The plane of the circle was perpendicular to the plane of the field, so he rotated the spheres, 90 degrees prograde, until the plane of the circle was parallel to the plane of the field. With a blink, the sphere "GA" disappeared above the plane of the circle. Another blink, and the sphere "NC" did the same below. All that remained was the circle, which, tasting like bubblegum, tasted pink, but only vaguely, because the circle was only vaguely pink, as were the spheres that had blown up from the points to lose the intensity of their redness. Actually, the spheres were colorless and the circle white, but Reid happened to like the taste of pink.

When a sphere intersected a circle, the intersection was one point on a tangent or two points on a secant. In the top left quadrant, Reid conjured up a sphere "SR". Several times in succession, he blinked. With each blink, the sphere zoomed closer to the circle until they intersected at one point on a tangent, then two points on a secant. In the bottom left quadrant, he conjured up a sphere "TH" and blinked it into place, intersecting the sphere "SR" and the circle "US" at the bottom point of their intersection. In the top right quadrant, a sphere "JG" intersected the sphere "SR" and the circle "US" at the top point of their intersection. Reid stared, waiting for the figures to glow white. They remained inert, so, bewildered, he frowned. As soon as he frowned, he recognized his error. With a bemused smirk, he blinked to redraw the spheres "GA" and "NC" above and below the plane of the circle. Now, the figures were complete. Without blinking, but shifting his eyes back and forth amongst the figures, he focused in upon the spheres "GA", "NC", and "SR" surrounding the circle "US". Under his gaze, they glowed red. Surrounding the same circle, the spheres "GA", "SR", and "TH" glowed blue, and the spheres "NC", "SR", and "JG" glowed green. Brilliantly, the spheres glowed red, then blue, then green, color after color after color in shifting succession until shifting intensified into staring. Reid stared, and as he stared, the figures - the spheres, the circles, and the points - glowed white to trilaterate a truth, from the outside in, that he had cared and dared to know. He stared further, and as he stared, the sphere "SR" bounced forwards and sideways, bringing with it all the other figures, to rotate the plane of the circle perpendicular to the plane of the field. Brilliantly, the spheres glowed white, but not upon the field. Now that one of the spheres was centered over his own body, Reid thought and felt the truth, glowing and zooming, from the inside out as well.

Holding himself steady, he revolved the field around his body to place the triangle at the front of his mind, its last known configuration a constellation of white dwarf stars - small, massive, and dense - in the darkest night sky. Of its own volition, the point "SR" flipped downwards over the sphere "SR", vertex to center, as both points of both figures wobbled in place over his chest and in time with his heart. With a blink, the figures jumped up onto the field. Another blink, and the figures jumped down over his body. Between the two perspectives, the outside in and the inside out, Reid shifted, seeing and hearing a universal objective truth in its mathematical simplicity and beauty as he thought and felt a personal subjective experience in its narrative complexity and humanity.

From the point "SR", it was only a hop, skip, and jump to land on the line "US", as it was from the sphere "SR" to the circle "US", center to center or surface to arc. With a hop, skip, and jump, Reid landed himself in the shoes of the UnSub. Under standard conditions of coffee and sleep, triple jumps made with his mind, unlike triple jumps made with his body, were almost always successful.

As he jumped away, he spoke, in a soft indefinable murmur, of his personal subjective experience in the words of the universal objective truth, as if generalizing, experience to truth and narrative to mathematics, the stressors, internal and external and external and internal, that had tripped to devolve him from the child - Dr. Spencer Reid, Philosopher - that he should have always remained into the adult - Dr. Spencer Reid, Profiler - that he should have never become. As he jumped back, he fumbled for his cell phone, knocked it onto the floor, picked it up, and dialed Garcia.

"Ahoy, me hearties! Arrrrrrr!" Garcia answered.

"Trilateration," Reid murmured.

"Triangulation," Reid murmured again.

"Aye, matey, a-pirating I go with me tricorn and me flag o'skull n'bones," gift given, but not yet unwrapped to be received.

"They're the same case," Reid mumbled softly, half into the room, half into the phone, and fully ignoring either human at either end. "They're the same case!" he spoke loudly into the room. "I chose _this_ case, but I could have chosen _that_ case, but I didn't have to choose _either_ case, because they're the _same_ case!" he raised his voice until he was nearly shouting into the phone.

"Esqueeze me?" Garcia asked quizzically.

"They're the same case!" Reid shouted.

"OK, OK! They're the same case! Jebus, Reid, my ears! Say it, don't spray it!" Garcia complained.

"Sorry, sorry," Reid apologized in distraction. "Hmmph..." a huff, puff, and sigh to gather his thoughts and feelings. "They're the same case," he spoke calmly and clearly. "Remember the two cases that we talked about over the weekend? This one and the one in Georgia with the missing children? I was having trouble deciding between them, but we ended up taking this case over that case."

"Yeah, we took this case, because that case was cold," Garcia said.

"That case was cold, because the UnSub in that case has been too busy killing people in this case to continue killing people in that case," Reid declared.

"What!" Garcia asked, not in the form of a question.

"They're the same case, and they're the same UnSub. The same UnSub has been killing people in both cases, different but same," Reid explained. "Between July and September, he killed women and children in Georgia, in the suburbs around Atlanta. Twelve dead, two missing. In early September, he stopped. In late October, he started up again. Since October, he's been killing women and children in North Carolina, in the suburbs around the Triangle. Twelve victims so far. What appears to be two killers is actually one killer."

"What?" Garcia asked, this time inflecting a question.

"There are similarities in the physical evidence between the two cases," Reid replied. "In both cases, the women were shot in the head with a 9 millimeter, or 0.35 inch, or .35-caliber weapon. In addition, based on the scarcity of gun residue at all the crime scenes, the local PDs independently concluded that a suppressor was used with the weapon."

"Weapon, caliber, suppressor, whatever," Garcia summarized for her own benefit. "You and I both know that I don't know anything about guns, so pardoning my blissful ignorance for a moment...How common are these .35-caliber weapons?"

"Extremely," Reid said. "We use them in the Bureau, but they're available to anyone."

"And suppressors? Are those the same as silencers?"

"Yes, silencers don't actually silence, so they're more accurately termed suppressors," Reid answered. "They only suppress and distort the sounds of the gunshots."

"And anyone can buy them?"

"Search ATF databases for all suppressors purchased in Georgia between January and July 2010," Reid ignored the question to place an order. "All suppressor purchases are automatically reported to the ATF."

"Will do! Easy breezy beautiful!" Garcia answered eagerly. "By which I mean 'I-can-run-that-search-in-a-breeze-easy-breezy-beautiful', not 'I'm-calling-you-easy-breezy-beautiful', but of course you are, but being a more feminine term of endearment, 'easy breezy beautiful' is more like something that I'd call JJ or Prentiss, but not as in 'You're-dyeing-your-hair-to-cover-up-the-gray-easy-breezy-beautiful', but more as in 'You-brain-wielding-gun-toting-amazon-mastermind-you-easy-breezy-beautiful'. Kapish?"

"..."

"Sorry, a glitch in the programming just now," Garcia said. "To get back on topic, you didn't answer my question about the suppressors, but I, using my awesomest powers of deduction, have concluded that anyone can buy them as long as you, I, and Big Brother are all staring at our computer screens, tirelessly watching."

"Anyone can buy them wherever they're legally sold," Reid clarified. "They're legal in Georgia and North Carolina and many other states, but not in California, Delaware, Hawaii, Illinois, Iowa, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, New Jersey, New York, Rhode Island, Vermont, or DC."

"Ooohkaaay! Should I search for suppressors purchased in North Carolina as well? If you're right about the two killers being one killer, then the crimes started in Georgia, but still..." Garcia clacked away at her keyboard. "And why January to July 2010? That's a pretty narrow range of dates. I can do much better than that. What if the UnSub bought the suppressor last year or the year before or several years ago?"

"We don't want to inflate the dataset," Reid said. "A list of people who purchased suppressors within the past ten years in both Georgia and North Carolina isn't going to help us much at all. That's more data than we can analyze. We'll start with a narrow range of dates and locations and go backwards and forwards from there. Isolate the data for the five counties - Fulton, DeKalb, Gwinnett, Cobb, and Clayton - that make up the core of the Atlanta metropolitan area. Also, not every suppressor fits every weapon, so filter the data based on the specific models purchased. JJ kept a big binder listing all the makes and models of firearms and firearm accessories in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet in her office. It should still be there. Make a list of .35-caliber weapons and the suppressors that fit them. Cross reference with the list of suppressor purchases to narrow down the data."

"Got it! Now we're talking!" Garcia intensified her clacking. "Lists, lists, lists! Making lists! Sorting lists! Did you know that list-making and -sorting are two of my thousands of super special specialties? Indeed, I am to listing as you are to geniusing!"

"Hmm..." Reid wasn't sure how to reciprocate the compliment, grammatically incorrect, but factually accurate.

"While I'm listing for you, Genius, maybe you'd like to do a little geniusing for me," Garcia clued him in. "I still don't get why the two cases are the same case. Do explain, Dr. Flying Spaghetti Monster, why two different cases with two Big Bads be one case with Big Bad one and the same. Couldn't the similarities in the physical evidence have been 100% coincidental? As you said, .35-caliber weapons are extremely common, and suppressors can be purchased by anyone wherever they're legally sold. Am I missing something here? Is there some crucial detail that's going to make the clouds part, the heavens open, and the angels sing?"

"No, that's all the physical evidence linking the two cases," Reid said.

"And you do agree that 'all the physical evidence linking the two cases' is way too scanty to link the two cases?" Garcia suggested.

"Well, based on the physical evidence alone, we don't have much to go on, but when the physical evidence runs out, there's..." Reid trailed off, pausing to translate mathematics into narrative in a process that almost always appeared, but was almost never actually, easy breezy beautiful.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, physical evidence runs out, so local numbnuts invoke mystical profilers, who, assisted by enigmatic oracle, descend from heavenly abode to bridge gaps, solve cases, and destroy evildoers," Garcia said impatiently. "So tell me, O Sky Lords Up On High, what's the profile, and how did you guys come up with it?"

"Ummmmmmm..." Reid hesitated as he considered launching into an explanation of the triangulation and trilateration algorithms that he so very much wished to explain, realized that such an exercise was synonymous with futility in any mind but his own, and decided against it. Instead, he ducked the question, "Imagine that you're the UnSub. You..."

"Excuse me! I don't want to be the UnSub!" Garcia protested.

"Fine," Reid said, a sub-atomic particle of snappishness creeping into his tone. "Imagine that I'm the UnSub. I..."

"I don't want you to be the UnSub either," Garcia protested further.

"Someone has to be the UnSub," Reid snapped out a teeny-tiny electron, the teeny-tiny unit of electrical charge catapulting out of his mouth to meander aimlessly around the room before landing above his left eye, where it caused one of his upper eyelashes to veer down and away from its numerous bristly cohorts, the lonely little follicle fluttering in his field of view to minimally obstruct his view of the field. "The psychology and behavior of the UnSub are easier to understand from his perspective. From the outside in, it all looks crazy, sounds crazy, is crazy, but from the inside out, it all makes sense...sort of."

"Alright, I'm the UnSub," he continued without waiting for a response. "I'm a serial killer who has murdered twenty-four, possibly twenty-six, victims during the past five months. I killed pregnant women and unborn children in North Carolina. I killed women and small children - all toddlers, all two to three years old, all boys - in Georgia. To us, the profilers, the victimologies are completely different, but to him, the killer, they are exactly the same."

"How the heck are they 'exactly the same'?" Garcia asked in a manner that implied air quotes, if not physical, then mental.

"Mothers and children," Reid said. "Specifically, the UnSub, his child, and the mother of his child."

"The UnSub's child? Did you guys change your minds about the UnSub? I thought that the UnSub's child was supposed to have been...not born..."

"Right, the child was aborted," Reid said bluntly. "The abortion was the external stressor that triggered the internal stressor that triggered the crimes. Imagine that I'm the UnSub. Prior to the stressors, I was a normal guy living a normal life. I had a job and a relationship. My job could have grown into a career. My relationship could have grown into a family. In addition, I had the family and friends that I grew up with all around me. I was an emotionally healthy individual with a solid support system. I had a lot to live for in the present and a lot to plan for in the future. I had hopes and dreams for what my life was going to be like one, five, ten, twenty years down the line. In summary, I had it all, and there was no rhyme or reason for me to give it all up to become a serial killer."

"Until one day..." Garcia prompted as Reid paused.

"Until one day when my wife or girlfriend, let's say wife, came to tell me the bad news," Reid continued. "For her, the bad news was that she was pregnant. For me, the news may or may not have been bad at first, but even if it had been, then it wouldn't have stayed that way for long. Eventually, for me, bad news became good news. At first, the pregnancy was unexpected and a huge shock and difficult to digest, but once the dust had settled to reveal my true thoughts and feelings, it became clear to me that it was the best possible news. I started to look forward to having a child. I started to imagine myself as a father. I couldn't wait to have a family of my own."

"Aww, that's so sweet of you, Reid, but I don't think that the UnSub would have used analogies like 'dust settling to reveal true nature of bestest news'," Garcia commented.

"I know, I'm not doing a very good impression of him," Reid said. "What I'm trying to say is that while the pregnancy was unplanned, the UnSub was the one who wanted the child, and his wife was the one who didn't, neither in the beginning or in the end."

"That's the opposite of the normal case," Garcia said. "Normally, it's the guy who freaks out and doesn't want the kid and runs away to flee the scourge of his unwelcome spawn. That's why the world is filled to the brim with deadbeat dads instead of...um-um-um..." search in progress for maternal version of shameful appellation, "...miscreant moms," search complete.

"Actually, parents of both genders are termed 'deadbeats' if they fail to contribute to the financial support of their underage children," Reid corrected. "Curiously, when used in its strictest sense in court, the term says nothing about other areas of support, such as..."

"Pff, whatever, I'm sticking to my guns," Garcia cut him off. "My terminology is alliterative and therefore superior."

"Good point," Reid conceded, succumbing, as he sometimes did, not to peer or logical, but aesthetic, review.

"Why, thank you!" Garcia exclaimed happily. "OK, back to the evildoer's tale of evildoing please. I'm officially rapt."

"The UnSub's wife didn't want the child, so she had an abortion," Reid said. "Most likely, she did it during the third or fourth month of pregnancy, just as she was starting to 'show' and just like the pregnant victims that he later killed. The third or fourth month is fairly late to have an abortion, so she might have procrastinated until the last possible minute. Beyond the 16th to 20th weeks of pregnancy, abortions are more complicated to perform, usually requiring a procedure called intact dilation and extraction, also known as intrauterine cranial decompression, also known as partial birth abortion, also known as illegal in the United States. She must have gone through with it before then. As for the UnSub, I don't know how much he knew about it or whether he knew about it at all, but there's no way that he could have stopped it, no matter how much he had wanted the child or how much he had opposed abortion on principle. The mother is the one who carries the baby, and it's her body that gets pregnant, so it's her right to terminate her pregnancy, so it's her right to have an abortion, and there's nothing that he could have done about it as the father. In this country, men don't have reproductive rights, and we're not going to have any until we figure out a way to carry babies ourselves, or, failing that, to grow them...in...tanks."

Garcia snickered, an expression of delight at the adorable prospect of male pregnancy. Hot on the heels of the snicker came the shudder that accompanied her recollection of a movie that she had once made the mistake of watching. In it, Arnold Schwarzenegger had played a gynecologist who had developed a fertility drug that, after being rejected by the FDA, he had naturally taken to impregnate himself with the donated egg of a fellow misguided physician played by Emma Thompson. Along the way, he had complained about his nipples hurting, eaten copious amounts and unappetizing combinations of various food items, and disguised himself as an extremely masculine woman who had become extremely masculine due to excessive consumption of anabolic steroids during the halcyon days of her deeply regrettable youth. In the end, he had given birth by caesarean section as the only exit strategy available. All these gems Garcia was just about to share with Reid, when Reid, tracing the mathematics in his mind to track the narrative in his mouth, lost his train of thought just in the nick of time, "Uhh, Garcia, what was I saying just now?"

"Mpreg," Garcia answered immediately. "Speaking of which, let me tell you about a mov..."

"Yes, the UnSub lost an unborn child of his own when the mother of his child terminated her pregnancy," Reid, sensing no danger, escaped its clutches just in the nick of time. "In response, he targeted pregnant women and unborn children as victims."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Garcia said. "He didn't target pregnant women right away. He targeted women and small children - toddlers, not babies. Can you say 'Out Of Order'?"

"As fast as you can say 'Does Not Compute'," Reid said. "From the outside in, nothing makes sense. From the inside out, everything makes sense. Think about it this way. What are toddlers? Toddlers are just babies who have outgrown babyhood. Babies and toddlers are just children at different stages of childhood development. In the Georgia case, the common thread linking the crimes was the age and gender of the children. All were two to three years old. All were boys. All were substitutes for the UnSub's own child, who, had he been born, would have been three years old this year. Specifically, he would have been three years and five months old at this date."

"Three years and five months old..." Garcia repeated slowly. "Three years and five months ago...is...July 2007."

"The crimes started in July 2010," Reid said.

"Around the third birthday of his unborn child," Garcia contemplated. "Oh God, Reid, are you telling me that the UnSub was in effect celebrating the non-existent birthday of his non-existent child by killing similar victims - small children and their mothers too?"

"Yes," Reid answered. "If the timeline is accurate, then the child would have been born in July 2007, which means that the abortion would have occurred earlier that year, by February at the latest. 2007 to 2010, three years, third anniversary. Third anniversaries, plural. 2010 is the third anniversary of both events - the abortion that occurred and the birth that didn't. January to July...Sometime during that period, the UnSub finally 'lost it', so to speak. The internal stressor that had been building up since the external stressor of three years ago finally tripped to devolve him from 'Normal Guy' into 'Serial Killer'. In July, he finally snapped and killed, but he had probably been considering, possibly even planning, the crimes for some time before then. That's why I asked you to search for suppressors purchased between January and July of this year."

"Genius!" Garcia shrieked. "The UnSub killed small children just like the small child that he never had to love and lose and unborn children just like the unborn child that he loved and lost! Oh, and their mothers too. The victimologies are exactly the same!"

"Yes," Reid answered.

"Search for all abortions performed in Georgia in January and February 2007, isolating the data for the five counties - whatever they are - that make up the core of the Atlanta metropolitan area," Garcia ordered herself as Reid would have done had she not done so before he could have done so.

"Fulton, DeKalb, Gwinett, Cobb, and Clayton," Reid filled in the blanks.

"Curious that you know those off the top of your head," Garcia mused. "By which I mean not curious at all..."

"When I was little, around four or five years old, I had this hobby called 'Traveling By Map'," Reid explained unnecessarily. "That's the best way to travel, because you can go anywhere you want, even to the Moon or Mars. I remember sitting on the living room floor on Saturday afternoons, looking through stacks of big heavy atlases and traveling by map. Every 2-D geographical feature that I saw on a map, I'd turn it into a 3-D mountain or canyon or river or whatever, right there in the living room with me, so I could imagine what it would be like to visit all those places on the map. It worked so well that if I were imagining the Sahara around me, then the living room floor would feel blistering hot, and I'd have to jump up and dance around on one foot at a time. Sometimes, I ended up at one of the nuclear test sites in Nevada, and whenever that happened, I'd go 'beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep' like a Geiger counter for the rest of the day. I'd do this for hours at a time, and the whole time that my dad was trying to get me out of the house for Little League practice, I'd pretend not to hear him, because I was much happier playing mental sports on my own than physical sports with the other kids. It was so much fun studying maps of the Martian surface and imagining myself as an explorer in my bulky spacesuit climbing up Olympus Mons and leaping down Valles Marineris and skimming over the polar ice caps in my jetpack. I even imagined myself as one of the Viking landers, touching down onto the ground, turning my photovoltaic panels towards the Sun, and reaching out with my robotic arm to scoop up soil samples for experiments to detect Martian life. But no matter how much fun that was, I'd always stop as soon as my mom waved a book in front of my face and flipped the pages at me and announced that she was going to read a story to anyone who happened to hear it. The funny part was that I'd want to hear the stories read to me, even though I could read them much faster myself, and I'd want to hear the same story time and again, even though I had memorized all the stories just like I had memorized all the maps. So my mom would read me the same story everyday for a week or two, until I came up with the brilliant idea to flip to a random page in a random book to get sucked into a different story all of a sudden, and that would be the one that I'd latch onto for another week or two until I randomly picked yet another. Meanwhile, I'd chew through a huge number of books on my own, but if anyone tried to read me anything other than the one thing that I wanted to hear, then there would be hell to pay. One time, I became obsessed with the phone book after one of the kids from Little League mentioned that all our parents' names were listed in it. During the middle of practice, when my dad was coaching the catcher, I ran home to check, and I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw that my dad's name was there, just like the shortstop had said! After that, my parents had to take turns reading me the phone book for an entire month until I became obsessed with the DSM. It was a neverending cycle that must have driven them...half...crazy..." he chuckled, reminiscing over the childhood that he had most definitely outgrown and applying the adjective most accurately to his parents, only half of whom had been driven crazy by him.

"Aww, how precious!" Garcia cooed.  
"Itsy bitsy Spencer traversed the Martian lands,  
Down went the Sun to chill the Martian sands!  
Itsy bitsy Spencer lost his darkened way,  
Up came the Sun to find a bright new day!  
Well? What do you think?" so concluded the impromptu nursery rhyme, neither its composition or performance interfering with the clacking of the keys.

"Bravo," Reid replied in quiet appreciation.

"Great minds taste alike," Garcia said. "Now, back to business. After I finish 'accessing' the medical records in a completely legal, secure, and undetectable manner, I'm going to cross-reference the husbands' and/or fathers' names with the list of people, male, who purchased suppressors three years later between one third anniversary and another. _That_ is not the problem. The problem is _this_. What if the UnSub was never recorded as the father in the medical records? What if the UnSub was never married to the mother of his child? As far as I know, there are no official government records for 'hooking up', 'going steady', or 'moving in together'. In the end, after all our hard work, we might be left with two blobs of data and zero ways to link them."

"I know," Reid agreed. "All or nothing: either we get all the way there in a few searches, or we get nowhere at all. I wish that there were some other way to identify the UnSub."

"Yeah, me too. But not to worry, Itsy Bitsy, not to worry one itsy bitsy bit," Garcia said. "All these shenanigans are going to take awhile to play themselves out, but once my minions and I get through with them, they're going to all work out to deliver us the UnSub's name to be replaced by his head on a silver platter. Or so I've chosen to hope.  
'Accentuate the positive,  
Eliminate the negative,  
Latch onto the affirmative,  
Don't mess with Mister In-Between!'  
Hey, Reid, mind if I call you back later? For this job, I'm going to have to go into warp drive. At least warp 1, possibly warp 2, maybe even warp 3."

"Yeah, sure, no problem, 27 times the speed of light," Reid said, understanding perfectly what Garcia had meant about hyperluminal focus and superluminal flow and anticipating his own return to those particular states of mind. "I have to go interview the families of the victims now," he sighed unhappily. "I'll talk to you afterwards."

"Smell ya later, Easy Breezy!" Garcia signed off.

"Easy breezy?" Reid hung up and whispered to himself. "Easy breezy beautiful?" he mouthed silently, still devoting a whole percent of his amazing mental faculties to the parsing of this particular tidbit.

Finding the tidbit utterly incomprehensible, he shifted his eyes to focus his mind back onto the figures upon the field. Upon the field, the figures glowed white and zoomed soft, tempting him to take them apart and put them back together, over and over and over again. To temptation, he gave in, differentiating the forest into the trees and integrating the trees into the forest, color after color after color, each and every cycle of red, green, blue, and white or red, blue, green, and white showing and telling him a tidbit more of each and every truth that he saw and heard and thought and felt and knew. Eventually, he knew enough to name the profiles, if not the UnSub. Jumping away, he named them in their proper order for the UnSub - the blue one "Complicity" and the green one "Pay Forwards". Jumping back, he named them in their proper order for himself - the green one "Pay Forwards" and the blue one "Complicity". Then, he smiled, a smile as big and bright on the outside as the one that he felt on the inside. The funny part was that all this morning, during this whole time that he had been alone at school, he had been alone there as a profiler and a profiler alone. When the clouds had parted, the heavens opened, and the angels sung, there had been no fallen one for the others to look down upon. Somehow, Reid had forgotten that he was a killer as well.

Three hours later, he remembered. The recollection hit him as he sank his teeth into the cheesy saucy deep-dish pizza that Morgan had preferred, Prentiss hadn't, and Rossi had ordered, because the quarter had come up tails instead of heads. For all three hours between recess and lunch, the BAU had interviewed the families of the victims and reassured them that the team was going to do everything within its power to hunt down and put away the killer who was going to have to pay for the heinous crimes that he had committed against their loved ones. Reid had done it too, and the whole time that he had done it, he had been a nervous wreck, fidgeting each of his limbs in turn, bumbling and stumbling over the simplest words of "you", "we", "he", and "she", and shifting his eyes amongst the various pieces of jewelry worn by the various living mothers of the various dead mothers, all to avoid laughing hysterically or crying deliriously in the middle of the police station an unnecessarily long flight away from another police station where the MPD was no doubt interviewing other families of other victims and reassuring them that another team was going to do everything within its power to hunt down and put away another killer who was going to have to pay for the heinous crimes that he had committed against their loved ones. Throughout the process, he hadn't recognized the stressor that had triggered his distress, and no one else had even recognized his distress, buried as it, along with his ever worsening limp, had been under his usual mannerisms of "Reid Being Reid". It wasn't until lunchtime that he had remembered the truth about himself, that he, having long ago _de_volved from child into adult and philosopher into profiler, had not long ago _e_volved from profiler into killer and adult into child again. Curiously, by which he meant not curiously at all, it wasn't until lunchtime that he had come up with a brilliant idea for some other way to identify the UnSub.

As his colleagues discussed the interviews over lunch, Reid snuck back into the conference room, quiet and dim like the bridge of the _USS Enterprise_ at the end of a long tedious stardate. To the profilers, he hadn't yet mentioned anything about the profiles. First of all, he hadn't wished to tell. To tell the narrative, he needed time and lots of it. Second of all, he had wished to show. To show the mathematics, he needed data, the more the merrier.

Reid grabbed his cell phone out of his pocket, turned it off when he had meant to turn it on, sighed, waited, turned it on when it had turned itself off, and dialed Garcia.

"Blobs, Reid, blobs!" Garcia answered in distress.

"Trilateration," Reid murmured.

"Triangulation," Reid murmured again.

"What is this? Groundhog Day?" Garcia asked.

"Hey, Garcia, can you give me Kevin's phone number?"

"Kevin's phone number? You want the phone number of my boyfriend Kevin Lynch?"

"Yeah, I need him to look up some data for me, so I can run some algorithms on it. Remember the software that we talked about over the weekend? The one for accessing the databases of the telecom companies to access the cell phone records of their customers?"

"Warrantless cell phone tracking," Garcia said.

"Warrantless cell phone tracking," Reid said.

"To do what?" Garcia asked.

"To hunt down the killer and put him away," Reid answered.

* * *

Why does Reid keep forgetting that he is a serial killer? Stop with the denial, Doc. "But, Psychopath, I don't wanna be a serial killer!" Shut up, Reid, and go cut up those girlfriends that I made for you. "'Kay."

Moar: Let us consider the profiles.

1) "Complicity": Anyone have any guesses for this one? I think the general idea can be figured out, but the specific details not.

2) "Pay Forwards": What about this one? The general idea is very very very simple, but I don't know if anyone outside my sick twisted mind can figure it out. This profile is hugely important and really gets at the foundation of serial killing as compared to plain old boring killing.

Also, if you were hoping that triangulation and trilateration were going away with this chapter, then I am going to have to apologize in advance. :P


	22. Chapter 22

Warning: Reid tells me to tell you that he loves math and if he says any math that makes no sense then he is sorry but he is Reid so he has to say math.

Speech of Shame: RoBunnyBot is deeply ashamed that it has not updated in such a long time. RoBunnyBot is so ashamed that it cut off its bunny ears, but thankfully, Reid was there to give it a new pair of quicksilver bunny ears, just like Voldemort was there to give Peter Pettigrew a new silver hand. Yep, exactly like that.

* * *

Chapter 22

Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Violet, Brown, Black - those were the colors available to Reid. One by one, he plucked the markers out of their neat new box and set them down on the cart next to the whiteboard. From five feet away, he tossed the empty box towards the trash can. With a cellophaneous rustle, the box crossed the event horizon, landing out-of-sight, out-of-sound, and out-of-mind, and leaving him free to dote upon the markers. Picking them up en masse, he arranged them into a multi-colored clock face in his left hand, his fingers curling around the barrels and his thumb orienting the caps according to the left-hand rule for certain unusual retrograde materials, such as negative index metamaterials, and certain unusual retrograde individuals, such as serial killers. Unlike the international standard, his personal clock face displayed only eight hours, from one o'clock to seven o'clock in the clockwise direction around eight o'clock in the center of the clock.

At one o'clock was Green for the first crime scene - the site of the abduction. Reid stared at the whiteboard, projecting upon its creamy cold surface the recent travels of his adult-like childhood. Silently and smoothly, a map of the Triangle superimposed itself over the surface. At first, the resolution was low, but after a second, it improved, the roads and streets and buildings and parks and houses and yards and rivers and creeks and lakes and ponds emerging from the cartography in such complexifying clarifying detail that the cartographer averted his eyes to inhibit the recall. The aversion stabilized the resolution. Looking back, the noise was gone, the signal was there, and the picture was pretty. Reid drew a green X over a quiet tree-lined street in the suburbs south of Raleigh.

At two o'clock was Red for the second crime scene - the site of the murder. Reid drew a red X over a secluded unpaved road in the flat featureless boonies 40 miles southwest of Raleigh, near the medium-sized town of Sanford, which, according to the distant travels of his child-like childhood, was the geographic center of the state of North Carolina.

At three o'clock was Black for the cities and towns capping and barreling the first and second crime scenes. Reid drew the black stars for Raleigh in the northeast, Sanford in the southwest, and Fuquay-Varina in the middle, halfway between the green X and the red X, the abduction and the murder, the pay forwards and the payback.

At four o'clock was Orange for the cell towers. Reid drew the orange squares (closed) for AT&T, the orange squares (open) for Verizon, the orange diamonds (closed) for Sprint, and the orange diamonds (open) for T-Mobile. Adopting the open/closed convention, he doubled the labeling capacity of the squares and diamonds, reducing the number of figures required from four to two, or rather, one, as squares and diamonds, both quadrangular quadrilateral equiangular equilateral tetragons, were both squares. This way, he avoided using the triangles and circles that were to be saved for grander purposes.

At five o'clock was Brown for the highways leading from the first crime scene to the second. Reid drew the brown curves for NC50 leading south from Raleigh to the junction with US401, US401 leading southwest to Fuquay-Varina at the junction with NC42, and NC42 leading west, then south, to Sanford. Just beyond the Cape Fear River and a few miles short of Sanford, he hung a right on Lower River Road, then a left on Gunther Road, before driving halfway down the dark deserted single-lane path to stop at the red X, where the UnSub had shot and killed his first and fifteenth victim amidst the quivering of branches overhead and the crunching of gravel underfoot.

At six o'clock was Yellow for the airways. Reid drew the triangulation diagram for the first crime scene. Without a doubt, the UnSub had been there, and so, Reid surmised, had his cell phone. No one, not even criminals intending to commit heinous crimes, went anywhere without their cell phones anymore. Cell phones, even when roaming, contacted the cell towers of their wireless carriers to sniff out the strongest broadcasts available. Cell towers, not merely broadcasters, received the signals within a range of 20 miles from all directions, so cell phones at all given locations incompletely estranged from civilization contacted at least one, possibly two, and maybe even three cell towers in their vicinities. If the UnSub had fallen to the allure of the blue-striped ball, then his cell phone would have contacted the three AT&T cell towers closest to the crime scene. The towers - Raleigh-ATT1, Fuquay-Varina-ATT, and Raleigh-ATT2 - would have formed the vertices of a triangle. The lines-of-sight between the towers - Raleigh-ATT1 to Fuquay-Varina-ATT, Fuquay-Varina-ATT to Raleigh-ATT2, and Raleigh-ATT2 to Raleigh-ATT1 - would have formed the sides. Within the orange vertices and yellow sides of the swirly sherbet triangle would have been the green X of the crime scene. In the prograde direction, Reid drew the lines-of-sight between the phone and the towers - X to Raleigh-ATT1, X to Fuquay-Varina-ATT, and X to Raleigh-ATT2. The lines split one triangle into three, or merged three triangles into one, whichever perspective felt the best at any given moment. For each of the other wireless carriers - the red checkmark, the yellow petals, and the pink T - he could have drawn a similar diagram, but he held back, because he felt, deep in the portion of the brain that was called the heart, that too many lines and too much yellow would have spoiled the pretty picture. The elements would have upset the unity of the composition. Reid was not an artist, but he knew art when he saw it. Like alliterative language, art passed both logical and aesthetic review.

At seven o'clock was Blue for the mathematics. Reid measured and labeled the sides of the triangles in the triangulation diagram. When a cell phone contacted a cell tower, the tower received the signal from the compass direction of the phone. From the first crime scene, the phone had contacted the towers of its wireless carrier within range of its signal. Reid eyeballed the compass directions from the phone to the towers - south-southeast at Raleigh-ATT1, northeast at Fuquay-Varina-ATT, and nearly due west at Raleigh-ATT2. Mathematically, compass directions were expressed as angles of arrival relative to due north. For due north and due south, the angles were 0° and 180°, respectively. For due east and due west, the angles were 90° and 270°, respectively. All other angles ranged from 0° to 360°. Reid eyeballed the angles of arrival corresponding to the compass directions - 160-something at Raleigh-ATT1, 30-something at Fuquay-Varina-ATT, and 270-ish at Raleigh-ATT2. He had a ruler, but no protractor, so he could not measure the angles directly. Instead, he calculated them using iterative applications of the lengths of the sides of the triangles, the law of cosines, the law of sines, the geometry and trigonometry of the right triangle, the sum of the angles in the triangle, and the number of degrees in the circle. At the end of the task, he labeled the angles of arrival - 162° at Raleigh-ATT1, 35° at Fuquay-Varina-ATT, and 269° at Raleigh-ATT2. His calculated values matched his eyeball estimates, so he folded his arms over his chest and nodded several times in satisfaction before performing similar measurements and similar calculations for each of the other wireless carriers and each of the other crime scenes. The activity - sequential, rhythmic, and repetitive like the chess and baseball games that he had loved and hated to play - felt good and right and true. In this case, as in most cases federal or personal, it was also useful, whether or not it appeared to be what it was actually was.

At eight o'clock was Violet for the mathematician. Reid's favorite color was purple, so he did not use it.

"Um, Dr. Reid?" a voice murmured hesitantly into his ear.

"Don't call him 'Doctor', Kevin. It'll give him a big head," a second voice chided the first. "Don't call him 'Reid' either. His real name is Itsy Bitsy Parker, and he's really Peter Parker's long-lost little brother."

"Garcia? Kevin?" Reid turned away from the whiteboard, plopped down into the nearest chair, and rolled himself up to the table. "Have you hacked into the databases yet?" he removed the earphone from his ear, unplugged the wire from the laptop, and addressed the denizens of the screen.

"That we have, Spiderboy!" Garcia declared cheerfully.

"What do you mean _we_?" Kevin grumbled. "I don't know what you could possibly mean by _we_. I only recall myself laboring over multiple keyboards burning my fingerprints off under the psychic flagellations of a shrill-voiced harpy buzzing around my head, poking me in the back of the neck, and shrieking out 'suggestions', 'directions', and 'orders', none of which were the least bit helpful for accessing the phone book that I wasn't supposed to be accessing."

"You forgot the part about the chocolate-covered peanuts," Garcia said.

"Oh yeah, and fed me chocolate-covered peanuts at lightning speed until I choked on my chocolate-covered saliva," Kevin recalled.

"_Now_ do you know what I could possibly mean by _we_?" Garcia prompted.

"Yes, perfectly," Kevin concurred in accordance with his conditioning.

"Do we have access to all the cell phone data for all the wireless carriers at all the cell towers in and around the Triangle?" Reid appeared to ignore the exchange.

Appearances were deceiving. In actuality, he analyzed the exchange, breaking it down into its parts and building the parts back up into a fascinating whole that he found impossible to understand in words. Instead, he understood it as a painting projected upon the field. In the painting, an old couple, a man and a woman, stood in front of a small house with a pointed-arch window in the second story gable. Looking directly at the viewer through his round flimsy-framed spectacles, the man carried a three-pronged pitchfork in his hand to match the stitching of the same on his overalls. Looking off to the side, the woman wore an old-fashioned brooch at her collar and an old-fashioned apron over her dress. In his personal "American Gothic", Reid replaced the man with Kevin, the woman with Garcia, and the house with a set of wall-sized panels from the ENIAC, the first electronic computer designed and built to simulate the universal Turing machine. Looking directly at the viewer through his rectangular thick-rimmed glasses, Kevin carried a bundle of category 5 cables stripped to expose the twisted pairs, which matched, around his wrist, an undeniably masculine bracelet consisting of the same. Looking off to the side, Garcia wore a necklace bearing a glittering axe pendant and a T-shirt depicting a grinning Chucky and Bride of Chucky standing in front of a fulminating putrefying pile of human body parts. With an equivocal twitch of his lips, Reid cleared the painting, equal parts comforting and disturbing, from the field, but not before he had involuntarily whisked himself onto the canvas to wonder, just as involuntarily, what he would be carrying and wearing on it, what she would be wearing on it, what they would be standing in front of, and who was the her who would be standing in front of it with him.

"Forget the Triangle! We've got the phone book for all the cell towers in the entire country!" Garcia said triumphantly. "My...I mean, Kevin's...fingerprints are burning to begin. Awaiting your directives, Lord Eight (Eye)Ball(s) of Order Araneae, First Class..."

"Search the databases for all cell phones with angles of arrival of 162° at Raleigh-ATT1, 35° at Fuquay-Varina-ATT, and 269° at Raleigh-ATT2 between 7 PM and 8 PM on Monday, October 25th," Reid directed.

"Ummmmmmm...What?" Garcia and Kevin asked in unison.

"Monday, October 25th was the date of the first crime," Reid said. "The UnSub abducted the first victim from Raleigh between 7 PM and 8 PM that evening. That same evening, he drove her out to the woods near Sanford, where he shot and killed her in short order before going home for the night to go to work in the morning. The body was found the next day, on the afternoon of the 26th."

"Yeah, we got that part just fine," Kevin said. "But what about the angles of arrival that we're supposed to be searching for? What exactly...are...those?"

"162° at Raleigh-ATT1, 35° at Fuquay-Varina-ATT, and 269° at Raleigh-ATT2," Reid answered slowly and patiently.

"No, Doc Ock (Arachnid-Not-Cephalopod)! What he meant was 'what _are_ those' as in 'what could those possibly _mean_'?" Garcia clarified.

"Oh, sorry..." Reid apologized for the misunderstanding. "The angle of arrival, or AoA, is the compass direction from which the radiofrequency signal of a cell phone reaches the antenna array of a cell tower. When connecting to the cellular network, the phone sends out a signal, an electromagnetic wave traveling at the speed of light in air, that propagates in all directions from itself. The signal reaches the towers within a 20-mile radius of the phone. Each tower receives the signal from a different compass direction depending on the location of the phone relative to the location of the tower. Each compass direction is expressed as an angle of arrival relative to due north. A signal from the north would arrive with an AoA of 0°, from the northeast 45°, from the east 90°, from the southeast 135°, from the south 180°, and so on and so on, all the way around the circle to 360°, or 0°, from the north."

"OK...So if a phone contacts a tower from the north-northeast, then the signal would arrive with an AoA of 22.5°, and the phone would be located somewhere on a line drawn from the tower at that angle?" Kevin reasoned. "But we don't know if the phone is on the line 1 mile away or 2 miles away or 20 miles away from the tower?"

"Yes, and that's why we need more than one AoA to determine the location of the phone," Reid replied with an excited bounce of his legs. "A line isn't a location. A location is a point. If the phone contacts a second tower from a second direction, then the signal would arrive with a second AoA, and the phone would be located somewhere on a line drawn from the second tower at the second angle. The two lines drawn from the two towers would intersect at a point, and that point would be the location of the phone. In theory, two AoAs at two towers are necessary and sufficient to determine the location of the phone, but in practice, it's preferable to use three AoAs at three towers, whenever possible, to enhance the accuracy of the angulation."

"That's why it's called _tri_angulation, isn't it?" Garcia asked slyly.

"Yes," Reid replied.

"So that's why you kept repeating that word earlier! And here I was, thinking that it was because of your eight eyes disguised as two eyes that you had to say everything twice! Wait...Does that make sense? No...Don't answer that! Let me bask in my moment for a moment. Ahhhhhhh, finally, a flash of insight into the iridescent silken mindweb of the Amazing Spidersib!" Garcia exclaimed.

"In the databases, the values might be listed under 'AoA' for angle of arrival, or 'DoA' for direction of arrival, or 'AoI' for angle of incidence," Reid continued. "Each contact from a cell phone should generate a row in the database, and each row should include an entry for that column. From the crime scene, the UnSub's cell phone most likely contacted all the cell towers within range of its signal. Most likely, the signal arrived at three towers with three AoAs. We know the location of the crime scene, so we know the AoAs corresponding to that location. We know the AoAs for each of the crime scenes in this case. If we can make a list of all the cell phones that spent enough time at each of the crime scenes to contact the cell towers in their vicinities during the dates and times of each of the crimes, then we should be able to identify the single cell phone that was present at all twelve crime scenes during all twelve dates and times of all six crimes in this case. Working backwards, we can use the AoAs in the databases to identify the UnSub's cell phone and the UnSub himself."

"OK, gimme a second to check..." Kevin tapped on a keyboard at the periphery of the screen. "AoA...DoA...AoI...Got it! Verizon's got a column for AoA. Sprint's got a column for DoA. Yep, and each row includes an entry for that column. So far, so good, but...uh oh...no sign of AoA or DoA or AoI in the AT&T and T-Mobile databases."

"Are there any columns labeled 'ToA'?" Reid asked immediately.

"ToA...ToA..." Kevin checked the columns. "Aaaaaaa-ffirmative, but why are there so many of them? There are multiple columns for ToA-A1, -A2, -B1, and -B2. What exactly...are...those?"

"The time of arrival, or ToA, is the time at which the signal from a cell phone reaches the antenna of a cell tower," Reid explained. "Each antenna is not a single receiver, but multiple receivers separated by distances on the order of tens of centimeters in an antenna array. The incident wavefront of the signal reaches each receiver at a slightly different ToA, and the time difference of arrival, or TDoA, of the signal at a pair of receivers is used to calculate the phase difference between the sinusoidal waves at each receiver. Usually, two pairs of TDoAs at two pairs of receivers are used to calculate the north/south and east/west phase differences. The phase difference is then used to calculate the angle of arrival according to the phase interferometry formula sin θ of the angle of arrival equals the wavelength λ of the signal times the phase difference Δφ between the waves divided by 2π times the distance d between the receivers."

"Clearly," Kevin muttered under his breath.

"And the mindweb captures the unsuspecting prey," Garcia spoke in the hushed tones of a nature documentary during the climactic scene in which the ferocious lionesses sank their felines into the throat of the felled and fallen wildebeest.

"Actually, not all species of spiders use webs to capture their prey," Reid corrected. "Weaving a web requires a substantial expenditure of energy, so many species have adapted to dispense with web-weaving in favor of energy-conserving predatory strategies. Trapdoor spiders dig burrows in which they lie in wait to detect disturbances from the trip lines laid out around the covered openings, or trapdoors, from which the predators leap out to pounce upon the unsuspecting prey. Net-casting spiders weave small webs, or nets, launched by stretching them out to several times the body lengths of the predators to entangle the unsuspecting prey. Angling, or fishing, spiders spin sticky balls at the ends of trapeze lines swung by the predators to hook and reel in the unsuspecting prey. In each case, the predator uses silk in an unconventional manner to capture the prey, which is, of course, unsuspecting."

"That's the creepiest thing I've ever heard," Kevin announced in a post-traumatic monotone.

"Welcome to the Wide World of Dr. Parker and Mr. IB," Garcia said.

"M-M-Mr. IB?" Kevin asked tremulously.

"I-B, or IB, for Itsy Bitsy," Reid said. "It looks like an abbreviation, but sounds like an acronym. Right, Garcia?"

"Mr. IB, though madness incarnate, is not the intellectual inferior of Dr. Parker," Garcia confirmed.

"So what do we do with the ToAs in the databases?" Kevin changed the subject.

"We use the ToAs to calculate the AoAs," Reid answered. "First, calculate the TDoAs from the four receivers A1, A2, B1, and B2, and use the equation of the sine wave to calculate the phase differences from the TDoAs. Then, look up the wavelengths of the cell phone signals for the cellular networks and the distances between the receivers in the antenna arrays. The wavelengths should be in the ultra-high-frequency, or UHF, band for radio waves, on the order of 10 to 100 centimeters. The distances should be half- or quarter-wavelengths, depending on the layouts of the antenna arrays. Look up the specific values for the cellular networks and cell towers. Finally, use the phase interferometry formula to calculate the AoAs and search for each of the sets of three AoAs triangulating the locations of each of the crime scenes during the dates and times of each of the crimes."

"Uhhhhhhh...Can you write that down for us, please? Like...with...step-by-step instructions...and...a detailed example?" Kevin frowned deeply in an unequivocal expression of unadulterated confusion.

"Actually, you can just send me the pertinent rows from the AT&T and T-Mobile databases," Reid suggested. "I've sent you a list of AoAs to search for in the Verizon and Sprint databases, along with the date and time intervals in which to perform the searches. For the other wireless carriers, I'll calculate the AoAs myself."

"You'll...calculate them...your-r-r...s-s-self?" Kevin stuttered in halting disbelief. "You do realize that there are thousands of rows in each of the databases, right?"

"It'll be quicker to do them by hand," Reid said. "I'll need some data to begin, so if you could look up the wavelengths of the signals and the layouts of the antenna arrays at each..."

"Done! And done!" Garcia interrupted. "Faster than the whiplash effect that snapped Gwen Stacy's neck, I have just looked up all the specifications that you have failed to finish requesting and have indeed sent them your very merry way this very berry moment!"

"Thanks, Garcia," Reid said. "We can check back here when we're done. Hopefully, we'll be able to find a needle in a pile of needles. It's not that hard if you know exactly which needle you're looking for."

"You bet we will! And that's when I'll work my magic to dig up a veritable China Syndrome of dirt on the UnSub!" Garcia said. "Just you wait, you filthy demented little bag of bones, I'll get my Eye of Penelope on you one of these minutes, and when I do, you'd better be wearing your heavy-duty tinfoil hat, because I've got mind-readers in my arsenal of tricks and treats, and they're itching to stick their piles of needles into your filthy demented little skull to suck out and mash up your filthy demented little chocolate-covered peabrain!"

"Penelope?" Kevin whispered softly.

"Yes, my Liege?" Garcia turned to Kevin with a grin.

"Are you always like this when you work with the BAU?" Kevin inquired timidly.

"What could you possibly mean, my Once and Future Sovereign?" Garcia batted her eyelashes at Kevin.

"Are you always like...this...this...this feline furfural of hissing purring righteous drive coupled with the 100% rust- and patina-proof stainless steel efficiency of the most positronic of all positronic females? It's just so..." pause for effect, "...unspeakably..." pause for further effect, "...sssssssexxxxxxxy..."

"Ohhhhhhh..."

Reid clicked a button to drop the connection before he had a chance to access anything that he wasn't supposed to access. Alone in the conference room, he glanced through the piles of needles that Kevin had, eagerly or reluctantly (he wasn't sure which), sent him. As Kevin had warned, there were thousands of rows in each of the databases. Reid scrolled through the pages and lines and numbers - up, down, and up again - before focusing his eyes upon the first row. When beginning a task, what better time and place to begin than at the beginning?

* * *

There was no body. No arms. No legs. No hands. No feet. No fingers. No toes. No heart. No lungs. He could not feel a body, and he was unaware that there was any body to feel.

There was no world. No eyes. No ears. No skin. No nose. No mouth. He could not feel a world, and he was unaware that there was any world to feel.

There was no self. No brain. He could not feel a self, and he was unaware that there was any self to feel.

There was only a mind.

Signal incoming to signal outgoing, pages and lines and numbers to numbers and lines and pages, matter to mind to matter again.

Across the pages and lines and numbers, his eyes saw, and his ears heard. Pages, lines, numbers. Zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom! Numbers, black on white, no color on color, as he saw them. Numbers, white on black, tone on no tone, as he heard them. Seeing them, he saw their colors. Hearing them, he heard their tones. 1 Green, 2 Red, 3 Black, 4 Orange, 5 Brown, 6 Yellow, 7 Blue, 8 Violet, according to the circle of the clock. 1 C(4), 2 D, 3 E, 4 F, 5 G, 6 A, 7 B, 8 C(5), according to the line of the scale. He felt them on his skin - 9 Hot, 0 Cold.

Across the numbers and lines and pages, his hands darted, and his fingers dashed. Numbers, lines, pages. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap! The pencil twitched and flitted. The paper slithered and crinkled. Pencil was to graphite as paper was to cellulose. Graphite was to black as cellulose was to white. Black on white was to color as white on black was to tone.

Inside, in his mind behind his eyes and his ears, he saw the colors and heard the tones, and they were all different, Green to Violet and C(4) to C(5). Outside, in the world before his eyes and his ears, the colors and tones were all the same, black on white and white on black, as he saw and heard them. Inside and different. Outside and the same. Sometimes, he liked the one better than the other, and sometimes, he liked the other better than the one. Always did he like them different, and never did he like them the same.

Signal incoming to signal outgoing, outside to inside to outside, black and white to color and tone to black and white again.

Without having any hands, his hands darted across the page. One held the pencil. One held the paper. His hands were not connected to his arms. He had no hands and no arms. Without having any fingers, his fingers dashed across the page. Some held the pencil. Some held the paper. His fingers were not connected to his hands. He had no fingers and no hands. Without having any eyes, he saw. Black on white, Green to Violet, hands to fingers, pencil to paper. Pages, lines, numbers. Numbers, lines, pages. Without having any ears, he heard. White on black, C(4) to C(5), pencil to paper, graphite to cellulose. Zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom! Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap! His eyes and his ears were not connected to his brain. He had no eyes and no ears and no brain.

He was not hungry. He was not thirsty. He was not sleepy. He did not have to go to the bathroom.

His arms did not hurt. His hands did not hurt. His fingers did not hurt. His eyes did not hurt. His ears did not hurt. His brain did not hurt. Nothing hurt him. He hurt nothing.

No sight, but signal. Pages, lines, numbers. Numbers, lines, pages. No sound, but signal. Zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom! Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap! It was the best no feeling in the no body. It was the best feeling in the mind.

Numbers. Numbers not from where? Numbers not from words. Numbers not to where? Numbers not to words. Numbers from where? Numbers from pictures. Numbers to where? Numbers to pictures.

A picture was worth a gazillion bajillion umptillion words.

Pictures. Pretties. Pictures were thoughts. Pretties were feelings. Think pictures. Symmetry, sequence, rhythm, repetition, pattern, truth. Feel pretties. Beautiful.

Picture: wave. Axis: x. Units: -2π, -3π/2, -π, -π/2, 0, π/2, π, 3π/2, 2π. Axis: y. Units: -1, -1/2, 0, 1/2, 1. Translate pictures, words. Picture word graph. Wave word sine. Translate words, pictures. Symmetry, sequence, rhythm, repetition, pattern, truth. Beautiful.

Picture: numbers. Column: ToA. Rows: numbers. Column: TDoA. Rows: numbers. Column: Δφ. Rows: numbers. Column: AoA. Rows: numbers. Translate pictures, words. Picture word table. Numbers word ToA. Numbers word TDoA. Numbers word Δφ. Numbers word AoA. Translate words, pictures. Symmetry, sequence, rhythm, repetition, pattern, truth. Beautiful.

Pictures. Pictures from where? Memory, eidetic: seeing and hearing and touching and smelling and tasting memory. Memory, mnemonic: thinking and feeling memory. Eidetic memory or mnemonic memory? Both. Mnemonic pegs for eidetic holes. Eidetic fast for mnemonic slow. Symmetry. Beautiful.

Tick, tock, no o'clock. Tick, tock, no o'clock. Tick, tock, no o'clock. No time.

Left is right is left is no left is no right is no left. Up is down is up is no up is no down is no up. Right is left is right is no right is no left is no right. Down is up is down is no down is no up is no down. No place.

Row 384. ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. No match.

Row 385. ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. No match.

Row 386. ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. No match.

Row 387. ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. No match.

Row 388. ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. No match.

Row 389. ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. No match.

Row 390. ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. No match.

Rhythm. Beautiful.

Row 391. ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. Match.

Stop! What? Match.

162° at Raleigh-ATT1.

Cross reference with Fuquay-Varina-ATT. Where pages? Where lines? Where numbers? Fast! Before the eyes come back! Faster! Before the ears come back! Fastest! Before the brain comes back! Fast! Faster! Fastest! Lost and found! Cross reference.

Row 275. ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. No match.

Heart comes back. Lub, dub, lub, dub, lub, dub. Lungs come back. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Slow. Slower. Slowest. No heart. No lungs. Eyes stay away. No eyes. Ears stay away. No ears. Brain stays away. No brain. No body. No world. No self. Mind.

Row 392. ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. No match.

Row 393. ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. No match.

Row 394. ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. No match.

Rhythm. Beautiful.

Pages, lines, numbers. Zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom! Numbers, lines, pages. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap! What was better than this?

Pages, lines, numbers. Zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom! Numbers, lines, pages. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap! Nothing was better than this.

Stop! What? No match.

Nothing wasn't better than this, because nothing was better than this. Nothing was better than this, because nothing wasn't better than this. Nothing was or nothing wasn't? Both. Symmetry. Beautiful.

Row 444. Repetition. Beautiful.

Row 444. 4 plus 4 plus 4 equals 12. 1 plus 2 equals 3. Pattern. Beautiful.

ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. Sequence. Beautiful.

Match. Truth. Beautiful.

162° at Raleigh-ATT1.

Cross reference with Fuquay-Varina-ATT.

Row 642. 6 plus 4 plus 2 equals 12 equals 4 plus 4 plus 4. Pattern. Beautiful.

ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. Sequence. Beautiful.

Match. Truth. Beautiful.

35° at Fuquay-Varina-ATT.

Cross reference with Raleigh-ATT2. Where pages? Where lines? Where numbers? Fast! Before the eyes come back! Faster! Before the ears come back! Fastest! Before the brain comes back! Fast! Faster! Fastest! Lost and found! Cross reference.

Row 273. ToA to TDoA to...

Stop! What? No match.

Begin at the beginning. End at the ending.

Row 273. 2 plus 7 plus 3 equals 12 equals 6 plus 4 plus 2 equals 12 equals 4 plus 4 plus 4. Pattern. Beautiful.

ToA to TDoA to Δφ to AoA. Sequence. Beautiful.

Match. Truth. Beautiful.

269° at Raleigh-ATT2.

Stop! What? Match.

162, 35, 269.  
162. 1 plus 6 plus 2 equals 9. 35. 3 plus 5 equals 8. 269. 2 plus 6 plus 9 equals 17. 9, 8, 17. 9 plus 8 equals 17. Pattern. Beautiful.

162, 35, 269. 444, 642, 273.  
162 is 9. 444 is 12. Difference is 3. 35 is 8. 642 is 12. Difference is 4. 269 is 17. 273 is 12. Difference is 5. 3 to 4 to 5. Sequence. Beautiful.

3 to 4 to 5.  
Prime to not prime to prime. Pattern. Beautiful.

3 to 4 to 5.  
3 plus 4 plus 5 equals 12. Pattern. Beautiful.

3 to 4 to 5.  
3 squared plus 4 squared equals 5 squared. Equation, triangle: a squared plus b squared equals c squared. Picture, triangle: right, side 3, side 4, side 5. Triangle. Truth. Beautiful.

3 to 4 to 5.  
3 squared plus 4 squared equals 5 squared. Equation, circle: x squared plus y squared equals r squared. Picture, circle: radius 5, center (0, 0), points (0, 5), (3, 4), (4, 3), (5, 0), (4, -3), (3, -4), (0, -5), (-3, -4), (-4, -3), (-5, 0), (-4, 3), (-3, 4). Circle. Truth. Beautiful.

Stop! What? Match.

9, 8, 17.  
9 plus 8 equals 17. Killed 9. Killed 8. Killed 17. Pattern. Beautiful.

Killed 9.  
3 plus 3 plus 3 equals 9. Killed 3 killers. Killed 3 muggers. Killed 3 hookers. Repetition. Beautiful.

Killed 9.  
2 plus 7 equals 9. Killed 2 people was supposed to kill. Killed 7 people wasn't supposed to kill. Killed 9 people was or wasn't supposed to kill. Pattern. Beautiful.

Killed 8.  
8 killed per day. 8 hours per clock. 8 colors per circle. 8 tones per line. Symmetry. Beautiful.

Killed 17.  
1 plus 7 equals 8. 17 rounds per 8 killed. Pattern. Beautiful.

Killed 17.  
17 killed per killer. 17 rounds per 8 killed. Concept, fractal: 17 rounds per 8 killed of 17 killed per killer. Truth. Beautiful.

Georgia, North Carolina.  
14 victims, 12 victims.

Stop! What? No Match.

Georgia, North Carolina.  
12 dead, 12 dead. Symmetry. Beautiful.

Georgia, North Carolina.  
12 dead, 12 dead. 12 plus 12 equals 24. 2 plus 4 equals 6. 6 times 2 equals 12. 6 times 4 equals 24. Pattern. Beautiful.

Georgia, North Carolina.  
2 alive, 0 alive. 2 in binary is 10. 0 in binary is 0. 10 in binary looks like 10 in decimal. 0 in binary looks like 0 in decimal. 2 in decimal plus 10 in decimal plus 0 in decimal equals 12 in decimal. 10 in binary plus 0 in binary equals 10 in binary. 10 in binary equals 2 in decimal. 2 in decimal plus 12 in decimal equals 14 in decimal. 14 victims, 12 victims. Pattern. Beautiful.

Georgia, North Carolina.  
12 dead, 12 dead. 1 plus 2 equals 3. 1 is a loner. 2 is a couple. 3 is a family. Father, mother, child. Mr. UnSub, Mrs. UnSub, Baby UnSub. Dad, Mom, child. William, Diana, Spencer.

No arms or hands or fingers. No legs or feet or toes. No heart or lungs. No eyes or ears or skin or nose or mouth. No brain. No incoming or outgoing. No inside or outside. No pages and lines and numbers or numbers and lines and pages. No zooming or tapping. No colors or black on white. No tones or white on black. No pictures or words. No time or place. No body. No world. No self. No mind.

No thoughts. Feeling. Perfect.

A1, B2, C3, D4, E5, F6, G7, H8, I9, J10, K11, L12, M13, N14, O15, P16, Q17, R18, S19, T20, U21, V22, W23, X24, Y25, Z26.

Dad, Mom, child. William, Diana, Spencer.

Spencer.  
S-P-E-N-C-E-R. 19 plus 16 plus 5 plus 14 plus 3 plus 5 plus 18 equals 80. 8 plus 0 equals 8. 8 times 0 equals 0. 8, 0.

Diana.  
D-I-A-N-A. 4 plus 9 plus 1 plus 14 plus 1 equals 29. 2 plus 9 equals 11. 1 plus 1 equals 2. 2 times 9 equals 18. 1 plus 8 equals 9. 2, 9.

William.  
W-I-L-L-I-A-M. 23 plus 9 plus 12 plus 12 plus 9 plus 1 plus 13 equals 79. 7 plus 9 equals 16. 1 plus 6 equals 7. 7 times 9 equals 63. 6 plus 3 equals 9. 7, 9.

Spencer, Diana, William.  
8, 2, 7.  
0, 9, 9.

Reid.  
R-E-I-D. 18 plus 5 plus 9 plus 4 equals 36.

Spencer Reid.  
80 plus 36 equals 116. 1 plus 1 plus 6 equals 8. 8 Violet.

Diana Reid.  
29 plus 36 equals 65. 6 plus 5 equals 11. 1 plus 1 equals 2. 2 Red.

William Reid.  
79 plus 36 equals 115. 1 plus 1 plus 5 equals 7. 7 Blue.

8, 2, 7.  
8 plus 7 plus 2 equals 17. 17 loved: Spencer, Diana, William. 17 hated: Spencer, Diana, William. 17 loved and hated, 17 killed.

8, 2, 7.  
8 o'clock, 2 o'clock, 7 o'clock. Center: 8 o'clock. Right: 2 o'clock. Left: 7 o'clock. Clock, circle.

8, 2, 7.  
8 o'clock, 2 o'clock, 7 o'clock. Line: 2 o'clock to 8 o'clock to 7 o'clock. Clock, triangle, clockwise. Line: 7 o'clock to 8 o'clock to 2 o'clock. Clock, triangle, counterclockwise.

8, 2, 7.  
8 C(5), 2 D, 7 B. Middle: 8 C(5). High: 2 D above 8 C(5). Low: 7 B below 8 C(5). Line: 7 B to 8 C(5) to 2 D. Scale, ascending, C(5).

8, 2, 7.  
8 C(5), 2 D, 7 B. 2 plus 7 equals 9. 9 minus 8 equals 1. 1 C(4). Middle: 1 C(4). High: 2 D above 1 C(4). Low: 7 B below 1 C(4). Line: 2 D to 1 C(4) to 7 B. Scale, descending, C(4).

8, 2, 7, 1.  
8 C(5), 2 D, 7 B, 1 C(4). Line: 1 to 2 to 7 to 8. Line: C(4) to D to B to C(5). Scale, octave, ascending. Line: 8 to 7 to 2 to 1. Line: C(5) to B to D to C(4). Scale, octave, descending.

8, 2, 7.  
8 C, 2 D, 7 B. Alphabet.

8, 2, 7.  
Line: 7 to 8 to 2. Line: B to C to D. Alphabet, ascending. Line: 2 to 8 to 7. Line: D to C to B. Alphabet, descending.

8, 2, 7.  
8 Violet, 2 Red, 7 Blue. 2 plus 7 equals 9. 9 minus 8 equals 1. 1 Green. Frequency, middle: Green. Frequency, low: Red. Frequency, high: Blue. Wavelength, middle: Green. Wavelength, high: Red. Wavelength, low: Blue. Model, color, RGB.

8, 2, 7, 1.  
8 Violet, 2 Red, 7 Blue, 1 Green. Top: 1 Green. Bottom: 8 Violet. Right: 2 Red. Left: 7 Blue. Polygon, quadrangular, quadrilateral.

8, 2, 7.  
8 Violet, 2 Red, 7 Blue. Angle, α: 7 Blue. Angle, β: 2 Red. Angle, γ: 8 Violet. Side, a: 2 Red to 8 Violet. Side, b: 7 Blue to 8 Violet. Side, c: 7 Blue to 2 Red. Law, cosines: c squared equals a squared plus b squared minus 2 times α times β times cosine γ. Law, sines: sine α over a equals sine β over b equals sine γ over c. Polygon, triangular, trilateral.

8, 2, 7.  
8 Violet, 2 Red, 7 Blue. Red plus Blue equals Violet. Violet in English equals/is Purple in English. Purple is made from Red and Blue.

Thought. Feeling. Perfect.

0, 9, 9.  
0 plus 9 plus 9 equals 18. 1 plus 8 equals 9. 0 times 9 times 9 equals 0. 9, 0.

9, 0.  
9 Hot, 0 Cold. 9 Summer, 0 Winter. 9 Northern Summer, 0 Southern Winter. 9 North, 0 South. 9 o'clock, 0 o'clock. Clock, poles.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.  
1 o'clock to 2 o'clock to 3 o'clock to 4 o'clock to 5 o'clock to 6 o'clock to 7 o'clock. Clock, circle, 0° latitude, equator.

9, 0, 1.  
9 o'clock to 1 o'clock to 0 o'clock. Clock, circle, 0° longitude, prime meridian.

9, 0, 2.  
9 o'clock to 2 o'clock to 0 o'clock. Clock, circle, 51°3/7° longitude, meridian.

9, 0, 3.  
9 o'clock to 3 o'clock to 0 o'clock. Clock, circle, 102°6/7° longitude, meridian.

9, 0, 4.  
9 o'clock to 4 o'clock to 0 o'clock. Clock, circle, 154°2/7° longitude, meridian.

9, 0, 5.  
9 o'clock to 5 o'clock to 0 o'clock. Clock, circle, 205°5/7° longitude, meridian.

9, 0, 6.  
9 o'clock to 6 o'clock to 0 o'clock. Clock, circle, 257°1/7° longitude, meridian.

9, 0, 7.  
9 o'clock to 7 o'clock to 0 o'clock. Clock, circle, 308°4/7° longitude, meridian.

8.  
8 o'clock. Clock, center.

9, 0, 8.  
9 o'clock to 8 o'clock to 0 o'clock. Clock, axis.

0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9.  
Clock, center: 8. Clock, equator: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Clock, poles: 9, 0. Clock, sphere.

Over and over and over, again and again and again, Reid rotated the clock in his mind behind his eyes and his ears. His personal clock sphere displayed ten hours, from one o'clock to seven o'clock in the clockwise direction around eight o'clock in the center of the clock, below nine o'olock above the clock face and above zero o'clock below the clock face. Rotating himself around it, he saw and heard the clock from all perspectives, from top and bottom and around and along, from north pole and south pole and equator and meridian, from hot northern summer and no summer/no winter and cold southern winter. He saw the colors and heard the tones - the sights and sounds of the clock and the art and music of the sphere. The equatorial aesthetics were stable, the colors and tones unchanging around the circle of the clock and the line of the scale. The polar aesthetics were fickle, shifting randomly amongst the equatorial as the colors changed at lightning speed and the tones changed at thunder speed. He saw and heard them with his eyes and his ears, and he felt them on his skin. Nine o'clock was hot, and zero o'clock was cold. At eight o'clock, nine o'clock came in hot, and zero o'clock went out cold, and nine o'clock warmed up eight o'clock, and zero o'clock cooled down eight o'clock. Nine o'clock to eight o'clock to zero o'clock - he felt them in sequence in the Northern Hemisphere, where north was up, south was down, and order was descending. Nine to eight to zero. 9 to 8 to 0. 9, 8, 0. 9 minus 8 minus 0 equals 1. 1 Green, 2 Red, 7 Blue. Model, color, RGB, machine: Red (255, 0, 0), Green (0, 255, 0), Blue (0, 0, 255). Model, color, RGB, human: L for Long (564-580 nm), M for Medium (534-545 nm), S for Short (420-440 nm). Red, Green, Blue - the colors bounced off the clock as balls of paint cracking open to splash themselves upon...

Suddenly, a burning sensation, hot on his skin, then a biting sensation, cold to his bones. Burning hot to biting cold - the sensations hurt from outside to inside, from skin to bones. Something was here to hurt him. Someone was here to hurt him. From right to left, he jerked his arm away from the assault. From left to right, his arm sprang back to attack the assailant.

Arms come back. Hands come back. Fingers come back. Legs, feet, toes. Heart, lungs. Eyes, ears, skin, nose, mouth. Brain. Body. World. Self. Mind.

Reid jumped in his chair as he jolted his head up to gaze angrily at a blur of someone or something that he did not recognize immediately. Immediately, he wished that it would go away, so he could go back to the colors that were about to splash themselves upon...It was Emily Prentiss, her vision impinging upon his eyes and her voice impinging upon his ears. Quickly, so as to escape her notice, he averted his anger and swallowed his annoyance. He was annoyed with her for interrupting him, for barging in to yank him, by force, out of his beautiful mind that had retreated within its limitless confines only to find itself sucked out of its reverie to recoil from a world that rushed back to stick it with the needles, sometimes sharp and sometimes blunt, that were not part of the pile that was its favorite. For a second, he experienced the "it" of the something or someone as an indescribably irritating speck of dust that he desperately wished to flick off his body and out of his mind right now right away, but after another second, "it" became "she", and "she" became "Emily Prentiss" the concept, and "Emily Prentiss" the concept became "Emily Prentiss" the person, one of the few humans in the single pile that was his favorite and one of the few humans who might or might not (he wasn't sure which) place him at the periphery of one of the multiple piles that were her favorites, so he, although very annoyed at first, became only somewhat annoyed, then slightly annoyed, then no longer annoyed at all. After a minute, colors and tones faded to black and white and concepts faded to people, and he remembered that sometimes, he liked black and white and people so much that he forgot that sometimes, he liked colors and tones and concepts so much that he forgot that sometimes, he liked black and white and people at all. During the past however much time had elapsed since he had hung up on Kevin and Garcia, he had not only found a needle in a pile of needles, but also completed the clock that he had not realized was incomplete until now, so now was gradually becoming one of those sometimes that erred on the side of black and white and people. Gradually, "Emily Prentiss" the picture became "Emily Prentiss" the word, which Reid, without seeing it or hearing it, was suddenly able to speak.

"Yeah, Emily?" Reid stopped his hand from snapping up to slap her as it reached the edge of the table.

"Welcome back, Reid," Prentiss smirked. "For a minute there, we were worried about you, sitting here spacing out with your mouth open like a robot that blew its fuse."

"I was going to call Poison Control in case you had overdosed on Adderall again," Rossi surprised him from behind.

"I've never taken Adderall," Reid leaned back to glance up at Rossi hovering above his head.

"Good, and you should keep it that way," Rossi nodded in approval.

"Reid on Adderall? A scary thought if there ever was one," Prentiss said. "I don't think he needs it though. I'm pretty sure he makes his own. Probably in some kind of...mutant gland...in there..." she poked him in the cheek to ascertain that he was still as life-like as he used to be.

"Actually, humans do make their own Adderall, sort of," Reid said. "The ADHD medication Adderall is based directly on phenethylamine, a natural monoamine alkaloid found in the central nervous system of mammals. Phenethylamine, or phenylethylamine, consists of a phenyl group joined to an ethyl group joined to an amino group. Adding a methyl group to the ethyl group produces **a**lpha-**m**ethyl**ph**enyl**et**hyl**amine**, or amphetamine, the active ingredient in Adderall, commonly known as 'speed'. Adding a methyl group to the amino group of amphetamine produces N-**meth**yl**amphetamine**, or methamphetamine, the highly addictive illegal drug commonly known as 'crystal meth'. A deficiency in phenethylamine is associated with ADHD, while an excess is associated with schizophrenia. Adderall, a mixture of racemic and dextrorotatory amphetamine salts, compensates for the deficiency to enhance energy and focus for hours at a time. Crystal meth goes a step further, not only enhancing energy and focus, but also inducing states of euphoria, grandiosity, and paranoia, in addition to obsessions, delusions, and hallucinations. Taken together, the effects mimic the psychotic episodes of schizophrenia, and can continue for months after withdrawal of the drug in the form of amphetamine psychosis. A related drug is 3,4-**m**ethylene**d**ioxy**m**eth**a**mphetamine, or MDMA, commonly known as 'ecstasy'. The psychostimulant drugs speed, crystal meth, and ecstasy all belong to the phenethylamine class of neuromodulators regulating the neurological pathways underlying the emotional manifestations of empathy, intimacy, and love, not only outwards towards others, but inwards towards oneself as well."

"Haven't we had this conversation before?" Prentiss squinted to remember.

"Yeah, Hotch asked me what love was, and I told him about the chemicals involved in love, and I said that they were found in chocolate, and you said that you loved chocolate, and I said that the same chemicals were found in peas, and I was going to tell you all about the phenethylamine class of love chemicals, but Hotch told me to stop, so I stopped, but if I hadn't stopped, then I would have gone on to mention that the abbreviation for phenethylamine is P-E-A, so the acronym is..." Reid snorted as he chuckled, "...PEA."

"That was shortly after you joined the BAU, during the Frank Breitkopf case," he added.

"I remember," Prentiss smiled. "I always wondered what you were going to say if Hotch hadn't cut you off."

"You did?" Reid widened his eyes in surprise.

"How nostalgic," Rossi remarked sarcastically. "Now, if we could drag ourselves off memory lane for just a moment..."

"Where are Hotch and Morgan?" Reid asked.

"Giving the press conference with the fake profile," Prentiss said. "Apparently, the UnSub is targeting pregnant women because he is reliving the tragic loss of his own baby through unspecified means."

"But that's the truth," Reid said.

"Exactly," Prentiss nodded with a satisfied smile. "It's just vague enough to be perfectly true, as long as our profile is correct, no bells or whistles required."

"It was Morgan's idea to be as vague as possible while giving out all the details that might help the public help us identify the UnSub," Rossi said. "At least one of us was taking notes from JJ all these years."

"Notes, but not fashion tips," Prentiss laughed. "Morgan's giving the press conference in his usual 'I am a walking talking spokesperson for Fruit-of-the-Loom' get-up."

"Don't complain, Prentiss. It could be worse," Rossi glanced sideways at Reid.

"Worse?" Reid mumbled as he typed a list of numbers into a text editor on the laptop screen. "Worse...Worse...Worse. AoA to Δφ to TDoA to ToA. TDoA-A1-A2, TDoA-B1-B2..." he muttered to himself as his index fingers flashed, one at a time, left and right, across the numbered keys of the keyboard.

"I'm curious, Reid. Have you ever considered...oh, I dunno...learning to type?" Rossi leaned over his shoulder to monitor his activities.

"Type...Type...Type. A1, A2, B1, B2...TDoA," Reid continued typing, fingers to numbers, fingers to numbers, fingers to numbers.

"This kid graduated from Caltech," Rossi held out his hands towards Reid as he looked up at Prentiss. "Any guesses as to how he ended up such a Luddite?"

"How could he _not_ have?" Prentiss asked. "It's obvious, Dave. You've gotta look at it from his point of view. Why use a computer if you _are_ one?"

"'Normally, you'd use a computer to do this, but it was quicker just to do it by hand,' so speaketh the human computer," Rossi misremembered the words of an apparently positronic man who had done, in his five minutes of solitude in the meditative silence, the polar opposite of blowing his fuse.

"NO...MATCH!" came the sound of a shrill-voiced harpy through the laptop speakers.

"Nope, no match," Kevin shook his head with a calmer demeanor. "During the past ten minutes, we have successfully determined that the UnSub is not a valued customer of the red checkmark or the yellow petals."

"Search the AT&T database for this phone number: 404-555-1278," Reid responded immediately. "Match this phone number with the list of TDoAs that I just sent you. I found a hit in the AT&T database just now. The UnSub might be a valued customer of the blue-striped ball."

"Blue-striped ball?" someone murmured in the background far far away.

"Red checkmark? Yellow petals?" someone else murmured.

"Don't tell me that you're done already!" Garcia frowned. "No way that you're done calculating all those angles already...No way. Right, Reid?"

"Angles?" two someones murmured in unison.

"No, I'm not done yet," Reid replied. "But I found a hit, so we can use it to work forwards from the phone number rather than backwards from the AoAs and ToAs."

"Checking...checking..." Kevin typed at thunder speed. "Checking...checking...checking...checking...checking. Ohh...Ohh...what is _this_? A hit? A hit for that cell phone number at 21:14:35 on Monday, October 25th!"

"What towers did the phone contact at that time?" Reid asked.

"Fuquay-Varina-ATT, Sanford-ATT1, and Sanford-ATT2," Kevin answered. "Those are the towers triangulating the site of the second crime scene, where the UnSub shot and killed his first victim...somewhere near Sanford, North Carolina."

"Keep searching for the other crime scenes," Reid ordered as he stared fixedly at the screen.

"Searching...searching..." Kevin typed at lightning speed. "A hit! A hit for the third crime scene!"

Reid nodded, biting his lip and waving his hands for Kevin to continue. From afar, he heard a drone of voices and saw a blur of faces. He sensed the presence of people around him. Surprisingly, the pressure energized him, pushing or pulling him (he wasn't sure which) into a half-state between colors and tones and black and white. A whoosh of air tickled his face as a door opened, then closed. The air brought with it a voice, a face, a person. Another whoosh of air brought with it another voice, another face, another person. Sitting in front of the computer screen, he drank in the drone of voices, the blur of faces, and the presence of people around him. He delighted in the incoming and the outgoing, the take and the give of his familiar self surrounded by his familiar others. Incoming were not pages and lines and numbers or zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom, but Emily Prentiss and David Rossi and Derek Morgan and Aaron Hotchner, four of the many people and few adult humans whom he would never hurt, no matter who or what he ended up at the ending. Outgoing were not numbers and lines and pages, or tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, but his skill and his will, him willing Kevin or Garcia or whoever it was who was burning its fingerprints off in front of the other screen of the other computer to pick up, through his skill, the individual pieces of the individual needle that, having been blasted asunder and buried deep under a pile of needles for such a long time, now longed to be pieced back together into its glinting metallic whole.

"Hit!"

"Hit!"

"Hit!"

"Hit!"

"Hit!"

"Hit!"

"Hit!"

"Hit!"

"Hit!"

The word echoed through the auditory channel, each hearing of it as rich and vibrant as each seeing of it through the visual channel, the tones and colors turning the cogs to ticktock the story of the clock. Gradually, colors and tones faded to black and white, and Reid looked up from the screen to look around the table. Rossi and Prentiss were there, as were Morgan and Hotch. Hotch had come in with the first whoosh of air, or had that been Morgan? Morgan had come in with the second whoosh of air, or had that been Hotch? He didn't know, and he didn't care to know.

What he knew was that the ten hours of the clock were not hours at all, but years. A year of the clock was a year of his life, and the ten years of the clock were the ten years of his life during which the clock, and that which he now found possible, mathematics to narrative, to understand atop and abottom and around and along its sphere as he had once understood it acenter alone, had been whole. Those ten years had passed, changing the interpersonal dynamics of the changing family, and he didn't care to know them again, at least not during one of the normal hours of one of the normal days of his one normal life.

Reid turned to his other family gathered around the table. In his mind behind his eyes and his ears, he saw his own vision and heard his own voice. Opening his mouth, he spoke the truth, and he was sure, in this moment that felt so good and so right and so true, that he was speaking it to those who would see its colors and hear its tones, as he, seeing them and hearing them and knowing them, opened his mouth to speak his words and share his gifts with them.

* * *

Note: A Word or Many About Reid's Beautiful Mind

This chapter is probably the weirdest in this story, and that's really saying a lot. It is an inside out view of Reid's cognitive processes, some of which may be more easily understood from the outside in, so here goes.

1) Hyperfocus

This is the phenomenon described in the second part of the chapter when there is no body/no world/no self. Hyperfocus is a state of intense concentration that completely blocks out everything but the activity at hand. It is strongly associated with both ASD and ADHD. It is more extreme than "focus", which is what Reid does at the end of the chapter when he is surrounded by people. Alone, he hyperfocuses. Around people, he focuses, but would rather hyperfocus. Hyperfocus can probably be experienced by anyone with the right drugs. Cue Adderall here. One level of hyperfocus is no body/no world/no self/mind. In this level, you can focus extremely intensely, assimilate incoming signals effortlessly, generate outgoing signals effortlessly, and be very productive and very creative for hours at a time in one sitting when you have no idea that you are hungry or thirsty or sleepy or need to go to the bathroom. Cue astronaut diapers here. The other level is no body/no world/no self/no mind. I would call this "Total Space Out". This is another state when you can be very creative and come up with lots of new ideas or gain new insights into old ideas without really knowing how you are doing it or even that you have a mind that is doing it, but you don't seem to be doing anything other than spacing out. Level 1 is useful for doing your math homework or writing fanfiction, while level 2 is useful for purely mental activities that don't involve any of your body parts moving. Also, an interruption during hyperfocus will make the hyperfocuser want to destroy whatever it is that is doing the interrupting.

2) Synaesthesia

This is the part where Reid sees colors and hears tones for numbers. This phenomenon is thought to be fairly common, maybe as high as 1 in 20 people. For example, when you think of the number 3, you might see "3" in your mind's eye (behind the forehead) as an orange digit at the same time that you see with your actual eyes (before the eyes) a big orange rectangle that flashes and disappears. In this story, I've made Reid a synaesthetic "associator", meaning that he sees and hears numbers in his mind's eye but not with his actual eyes in the world. If he saw them in the world, then he would be a "projector", but I want to differentiate between his inner and outer experiences, so I made him an associator. Colors and tones inside, black and white outside.

3) Visual vs. Verbal, Mathematics vs. Narrative, Pictures vs. Words

Visual and verbal thinking are the two dominant forms of thinking. The largest percentage but not majority of people use both on a regular basis, and smaller percentages are either primarily visual or primarily verbal thinkers. Reid uses both. He sees his vision and hears his voice. But I think his vision is more powerful than his voice. I keep writing that the auditory channel lacks the richness and vibrancy of the visual channel. His vision is faster and richer, and he has to devote a substantial amount of energy to translate the mathematics into the narrative, or pictures into words, which is why the narrative comes out sounding long, rambling, and odd. The vision is just so rich that he has to try to describe it all, and the message never gets through in its full glory. Contrast Reid with Sammy from the episode "Coda". Sammy is also a visual thinker, but he does not have much of a voice. Reid might have been more like Sammy in his early childhood. In "Memoriam", we didn't hear little Spencer say anything. I'm sure little Spencer knew how to speak, but speaking was probably not one of his favorite activities or easy for him to do, not like it is for him as an adult. Blather on, Reid! But let it be known, in the narrative of mathematics, that having no words to speak =/= having no gifts to share.

4) Eidetic vs. Mnemonic Memory

Remember the episode "Sense Memory" where smell was associated with memory for the UnSub? I loved that title for the episode. Eidetic memory is just sensory memory, primarily visual, but can be just as rich in the auditory and other channels. All people use both eidetic and mnemonic processes to recall information, even if all people do not remember as much volume of information as Reid does. Eidetic is far faster than mnemonic and can recall information for which there is no mnemonic, such as people's credit card numbers and those annoying software keys that you have to enter into Microsoft and Adobe products.

5) Pattern Recognition

This is a huge part of Reid's cognition. He is a pattern matcher, and he loves matching patterns. They are beautiful to him. That was the part with all the adding, subtracting, geometry, circles, scales, etc. Actually, there were many more patterns that could have been matched, but Reid threatened to lock RoBunnyBot up in a closet and feed it dog and cat food if it went on and on and on. RoBunnyBot had to stop, because cat food is super duper gross.

6) Emotions/Emotional Intelligence

This is not one of Reid's strong points. Remember the part in "L.D.S.K.", when he says that feels nothing after shooting Dowd? This has gotten him into a world of trouble in this story, since "feeling nothing" really precipitated the whole serial killing premise. Gideon was 100% correct about Reid. Reid does not actually feel nothing. He is not a psychopath. He thinks that he feels nothing because he has a low awareness of his own feelings. Not knowing what he feels is not the same as not feeling anything at all or not being able to feel anything at all. An emotion is like a signal that has to get through to his conscious awareness. In Reid's case, many emotional signals do not get through. Most of the time, he feels a calm peaceful happiness like a metronome. This is not the feeling one would label "happy", but more like "content". The strongest signals do get through. Anger is one that does. Anger is probably the strongest human emotion. Reid also has problems understanding his emotions, such that complex emotional stories involving couples, relationships, and families may be confusing to him until they are intellectually analyzed or metaphorized into "American Gothic" or the clock sphere or any of the many many many weird metaphors in this story. This is why there are so many weird metaphors in this story! Breaking down an experience to build it back up also helps. The term for this phenomenon of emotional awareness/understanding/labeling is "alexithymia", and it is associated with ASD, just as "cyclothymia", or intense mood swings/changes of emotion from highest high to lowest low are associated with bipolar. Most people have emotional experiences in a comfortable middle range and are in touch with their emotions but their emotions do not interfere with their functioning. Emotional regulation can be a problem for people not in touch with or in control of their emotions. However, being "alexithymic" does not mean that Reid does not feel emotions strongly when he does become aware of them. All of the emotions that he does feel are intense, and he may have trouble regulating them, thus causing the emotional fantasia that leads him to snap a victim's neck when the victim does or says something to anger him. Afterwards, the feeling is gone to be replaced by the intellectual fugue that causes him to conclude logically and incorrectly that he must be a psychopath, and since he is a psychopath, why not just accept his role as the Devil and go ahead and kill some more people? Oh, poor Reid, RoBunnyBot has tortured him so very much, and it loves doing it so very much.

7) Furfural

Surprisingly, this word is not but only sounds like one of RoBunnyBot's neologisms. It is a real word. The name of a chemical! :D

OK, end psychopathy for now. Next up, we return to the world of humans, and the profiles are finally revealed. Strangely, Reid hasn't plotted or carried out redrum in awhile. I wonder what this is leading up to. Soon after, we go back to the clock sphere. There were a few paintballs that bounced off the clock, so we're going to have to figure out where the paint splashes in Ch 24 or 25. Oh, poor readers, RoBunnyBot has tortured them so very much, and it loves doing it so very much.


End file.
